I woke up at 5:30 and snuggled with Kevin for 45 minutes before dragging to my feet. I went to bed before 9 last night, and only woke once. Full alertness: ahhhhh.
Morning tea is like a fuzzy blanket straight out of the dryer for my tummy. I'm not hungry yet. I'll probably eat yoghurt with maple syrup and coconut when I am.
I like silence in the morning. No radio news or music or computer-video noises. I don't even like to talk in the morning. I've always been this way: noise in the morning is about the most grating thing I can think of. (I know, I know—all you mommas are thinking "Just you wait!") Right now, all I can hear is clicky typing and the humming refrigerator. 8)
I just put on a second sweater, and I'm almost warm. Another pair of wool socks should do the trick. I'm rockin' my mousy copy editor vibe today, in a a gray cardigan and glasses. I love my gray cardigan and glasses.
I just spent an hour reading my current novel (My Name Is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok). I read by the whispering, slate-blue light reflecting off the snow and into my living room. I still don't miss the sun. Maybe in a few more weeks.
My back doesn't hurt right now, and I feel loved and hopeful, the kind of hopeful you feel when you're looking forward to something you've wanted, something vague but so real, something that may just come your way after all. Something I want and need may be coming my way.
And now to tame my hair, brush my teeth, find food, put on shoes, and go to work. Peace and love upon you each today.
26 February 2010
22 February 2010
... found my way downstairs and drank a cup ...
This morning, I had one of the best cups of tea I've ever had in my life. Maybe the best. This is not hyperbole. My 18-oz handmade tea stein wasn't big enough. And if you know of my passion for fine beverages, you know that this is huge.
It was Dilmah Ceylon Supreme, which is sustainably grown and fairly traded. Yorkshire Gold, PG Tips, Taylors of Harrogate, and Jacksons of Picadilly: step aside.
As always in the morn, it was finished with local honey and milk. Come to my house and I'll share a pot with you.
8)
It was Dilmah Ceylon Supreme, which is sustainably grown and fairly traded. Yorkshire Gold, PG Tips, Taylors of Harrogate, and Jacksons of Picadilly: step aside.
As always in the morn, it was finished with local honey and milk. Come to my house and I'll share a pot with you.
8)
20 February 2010
Be unspeakably kind
are words that a friend shared with me a few months ago, when I was in a bad space. I didn't realize at the time how they would soak into me; they've been whispering in my ear for months, a mantra. A precious gift.
I'm trying to be gentler with myself. It is not easy to be gentle with myself. Sometimes, it feels like a complete waste. Sometimes, it hurts, like washing a wound to heal it. Sometimes, I fail. You wouldn't believe the things I say to myself when no one can hear me. But I'm trying. Here are some things I'm doing.
I gave all my old outerwear to Goodwill, and I bought new outerwear that is actually warm. As much as being warm means to me, I've always bought cheap outerwear that did not keep me warm. My body would say "Ack! Put more clothes on me!" and my mind would say "Oh, shut up, baby!" Well, no more. I bought a 70%-down-30%-feather coat, two fairly traded alpaca hats, two pairs of fairly traded alpaca gloves, and some warm, sturdy, comfortable hiking boots. None of it was cheap, and I am refusing to feel guilty about it. Another kindness.
I've stopped using an alarm clock. I am blessed with a job that lets me start working in the morning when I want to, and I started allowing that blessing to come to me. I let my body and mind wake me in the morning when they are ready. (And, incidentally, it's never after 6:30.)
I drink warm water now. At work, I've started warming my drinking water with water from the hot-water dispenser. Warming my water keeps me from getting chilled from drinking enough. So that's how I roll.
I've started taking vitamin D-3 to regulate my wishy-washy hormones. I now only have pms for half the month, rather than three-quarters.
I've made a ritual of going to the woods, to one spot, a haven. Every Thursday after work, I go to the woods, sit in my spot, listen to the stream, and breathe for about an hour. Courtesy of my new outerwear.
My back pain is back. But this time, I'm deliberately walking very slowly. Veeeery slooooowly. Meditative. We came to Ohio to visit my in-laws this weekend, and I've taken two hot epsom-salt soaks in their bathtub. I shall take two more before we leave tomorrow afternoon. It would take a separate, long post to explain all the things that a hot bath means for me and does to my body an soul. No simple pleasure on this earth can do what a hot soak can do for me. (It really stinks that I have to come all the way to Ohio for a bath. Grr.) The baths only relieve the pain when I'm actually in the tub. But still. Ahhhhhh.
I'm listening to happier music. Here's a sample. A rockin' sample.
I'm doing some hard internal work right now. Damn hard. Stuff I've never worked on before. And I'm letting a few people in to help me, which is excruciating, because I'm so afraid of seeming needy or being burdensome. It hurts. But I'm tired of limping. And I need some extra grace and gentleness, friends. Maybe an extra hug or two, if you're one of the people who hugs me regularly. It's not easy for me to say that, but it's what I need, so I here I am, being kind to myself by asking. Maybe after a time, I'll be a better me.
And in an example of impeccable timing, a friend who teaches a writing class asked me and some others to write true, kind poems about ourselves for her to read to her students. At first I wasn't going to do it, because, ack! Hard! But then I decided to give it a try, and I kind of like how it turned out. Then I wasn't going to share it with anyone again, ever. But that's a problem, because hiding stuff that I do like it's shameful isn't very healthy, and I do it all the time. (Raise your hand if you've ever seen any of my drawings. . . . Exactly.) So here's my poem. Ahem.
Dear Amy,
Come inside, love.
Pour that wine for me.
Wash those dishes
and bake that bread for me.
Pray a little honey-loving down on me,
with that same thin, simmering blood,
crying in your hair and a gift in your hand,
unbestowed for want of confidence.
Stay warm tonight, love.
Here's a blanket and some tea.
Here's some quiet and a kiss.
I'll hold your hand, baby.
I'll let you know me.
I need you, and I'll tell you so,
'cause there's no shame in touching
skin or souls in stabbing, searing silence.
Quit crouching behind that war paint, love.
Put down that blade.
Break off that satin, patent-leather cell
and have a bath.
Take a little time tonight
to savor all that affect.
Soak and sip and slather on
a lavender reminder of your marrow.
You have a flare about you, love.
You're acid and salt and zest and leaven,
cadmium, chromium, cobalt in the kiln.
You got goods.
A bowl of soup, of fealty and frailty,
of sacred earth and savory fondness
and time. Your spice and travail
are polish and mercy and solace.
And now. Bath time.
I'm trying to be gentler with myself. It is not easy to be gentle with myself. Sometimes, it feels like a complete waste. Sometimes, it hurts, like washing a wound to heal it. Sometimes, I fail. You wouldn't believe the things I say to myself when no one can hear me. But I'm trying. Here are some things I'm doing.
I gave all my old outerwear to Goodwill, and I bought new outerwear that is actually warm. As much as being warm means to me, I've always bought cheap outerwear that did not keep me warm. My body would say "Ack! Put more clothes on me!" and my mind would say "Oh, shut up, baby!" Well, no more. I bought a 70%-down-30%-feather coat, two fairly traded alpaca hats, two pairs of fairly traded alpaca gloves, and some warm, sturdy, comfortable hiking boots. None of it was cheap, and I am refusing to feel guilty about it. Another kindness.
I've stopped using an alarm clock. I am blessed with a job that lets me start working in the morning when I want to, and I started allowing that blessing to come to me. I let my body and mind wake me in the morning when they are ready. (And, incidentally, it's never after 6:30.)
I drink warm water now. At work, I've started warming my drinking water with water from the hot-water dispenser. Warming my water keeps me from getting chilled from drinking enough. So that's how I roll.
I've started taking vitamin D-3 to regulate my wishy-washy hormones. I now only have pms for half the month, rather than three-quarters.
I've made a ritual of going to the woods, to one spot, a haven. Every Thursday after work, I go to the woods, sit in my spot, listen to the stream, and breathe for about an hour. Courtesy of my new outerwear.
My back pain is back. But this time, I'm deliberately walking very slowly. Veeeery slooooowly. Meditative. We came to Ohio to visit my in-laws this weekend, and I've taken two hot epsom-salt soaks in their bathtub. I shall take two more before we leave tomorrow afternoon. It would take a separate, long post to explain all the things that a hot bath means for me and does to my body an soul. No simple pleasure on this earth can do what a hot soak can do for me. (It really stinks that I have to come all the way to Ohio for a bath. Grr.) The baths only relieve the pain when I'm actually in the tub. But still. Ahhhhhh.
I'm listening to happier music. Here's a sample. A rockin' sample.
I'm doing some hard internal work right now. Damn hard. Stuff I've never worked on before. And I'm letting a few people in to help me, which is excruciating, because I'm so afraid of seeming needy or being burdensome. It hurts. But I'm tired of limping. And I need some extra grace and gentleness, friends. Maybe an extra hug or two, if you're one of the people who hugs me regularly. It's not easy for me to say that, but it's what I need, so I here I am, being kind to myself by asking. Maybe after a time, I'll be a better me.
And in an example of impeccable timing, a friend who teaches a writing class asked me and some others to write true, kind poems about ourselves for her to read to her students. At first I wasn't going to do it, because, ack! Hard! But then I decided to give it a try, and I kind of like how it turned out. Then I wasn't going to share it with anyone again, ever. But that's a problem, because hiding stuff that I do like it's shameful isn't very healthy, and I do it all the time. (Raise your hand if you've ever seen any of my drawings. . . . Exactly.) So here's my poem. Ahem.
Dear Amy,
Come inside, love.
Pour that wine for me.
Wash those dishes
and bake that bread for me.
Pray a little honey-loving down on me,
with that same thin, simmering blood,
crying in your hair and a gift in your hand,
unbestowed for want of confidence.
Stay warm tonight, love.
Here's a blanket and some tea.
Here's some quiet and a kiss.
I'll hold your hand, baby.
I'll let you know me.
I need you, and I'll tell you so,
'cause there's no shame in touching
skin or souls in stabbing, searing silence.
Quit crouching behind that war paint, love.
Put down that blade.
Break off that satin, patent-leather cell
and have a bath.
Take a little time tonight
to savor all that affect.
Soak and sip and slather on
a lavender reminder of your marrow.
You have a flare about you, love.
You're acid and salt and zest and leaven,
cadmium, chromium, cobalt in the kiln.
You got goods.
A bowl of soup, of fealty and frailty,
of sacred earth and savory fondness
and time. Your spice and travail
are polish and mercy and solace.
And now. Bath time.
18 February 2010
My Morning Offering
I need thee every hour,
most gracious Lord;
no tender voice like thine can peace afford.
I need thee every hour; stay thou near by;
temptations lose their power when thou art nigh.
I need thee every hour, in joy or pain;
come quickly and abide or life is vain.
I need thee every hour; teach me thy will;
and thy rich promises in me fulfill.
I need thee every hour, Most Holy One;
oh, make me thine indeed, thou blessed Son.
I need thee, oh, I need thee; every hour I need thee!
Oh, bless me now, my Savior! I come to thee.
no tender voice like thine can peace afford.
I need thee every hour; stay thou near by;
temptations lose their power when thou art nigh.
I need thee every hour, in joy or pain;
come quickly and abide or life is vain.
I need thee every hour; teach me thy will;
and thy rich promises in me fulfill.
I need thee every hour, Most Holy One;
oh, make me thine indeed, thou blessed Son.
I need thee, oh, I need thee; every hour I need thee!
Oh, bless me now, my Savior! I come to thee.
06 February 2010
Once More, with Feeling
Sigh. Here we go again.
I love my mom. I do. I don't want to dishonor her. I don't. But my closet isn't big enough for skeletons. If you think it's improper for a person to vent frustration with dysfunctional family stuff, stop reading this post. Because I just have to say. It really sucks.
It really sucks when she's kind and amiable for a few months, and I start to relax, enjoy having a mom, talk to her. And then. I wake up to 3 missed calls and 4 voicemails by 6 on a Saturday morning, all insisting that I "take responsibility" for the "alcoholic dysfunction" in our family. What does that mean? Your guess is as good as mine. I'm just glad I'm not 12 anymore. Because dude. When your mother randomly morphs into a ferocious wild beast overnight, it's frightening when you're 12.
Now, it's just disappointing. Bitterly disappointing. Another 8–12 months of vitriol, verbal abuse, rejection, disdain. Phone calls at 12 am and 4 am. Nasty voice mails galore. Maybe a broken phone or two, launched across the room and shattered on the wall. Accusations, manipulations, delusions, guilt trips. Guilt trips that work. Guilt, guilt, guilt.
And the worst part? She will be engulfed in excruciating darkness, and she will suffer. And I will take that suffering in, and hold it inside, and it will gnaw at my heart, because she's my mother, the only mother I have, and I love her.
I'm tired, friends. Three decades of this: a few months of having my mommy, and a year or so of dodging the monster that descends on her.
So this morning, in the dark, in the security of my bed, in my home, with my husband, I shed my tears. My frustrated tears, my angry tears, my wistful tears, my exhausted tears. My old, familiar tears.
And then I got out of bed. Drank tea. Did some reading and writing. Spent a few hours with friends in the sunshine. Ignored lots of calls, deleted lots of voice mails. Settled in, hunkered down. Reminded myself that this too will pass. Again.
I love my mom. I do. I don't want to dishonor her. I don't. But my closet isn't big enough for skeletons. If you think it's improper for a person to vent frustration with dysfunctional family stuff, stop reading this post. Because I just have to say. It really sucks.
It really sucks when she's kind and amiable for a few months, and I start to relax, enjoy having a mom, talk to her. And then. I wake up to 3 missed calls and 4 voicemails by 6 on a Saturday morning, all insisting that I "take responsibility" for the "alcoholic dysfunction" in our family. What does that mean? Your guess is as good as mine. I'm just glad I'm not 12 anymore. Because dude. When your mother randomly morphs into a ferocious wild beast overnight, it's frightening when you're 12.
Now, it's just disappointing. Bitterly disappointing. Another 8–12 months of vitriol, verbal abuse, rejection, disdain. Phone calls at 12 am and 4 am. Nasty voice mails galore. Maybe a broken phone or two, launched across the room and shattered on the wall. Accusations, manipulations, delusions, guilt trips. Guilt trips that work. Guilt, guilt, guilt.
And the worst part? She will be engulfed in excruciating darkness, and she will suffer. And I will take that suffering in, and hold it inside, and it will gnaw at my heart, because she's my mother, the only mother I have, and I love her.
I'm tired, friends. Three decades of this: a few months of having my mommy, and a year or so of dodging the monster that descends on her.
So this morning, in the dark, in the security of my bed, in my home, with my husband, I shed my tears. My frustrated tears, my angry tears, my wistful tears, my exhausted tears. My old, familiar tears.
And then I got out of bed. Drank tea. Did some reading and writing. Spent a few hours with friends in the sunshine. Ignored lots of calls, deleted lots of voice mails. Settled in, hunkered down. Reminded myself that this too will pass. Again.
On Union: Why I Practice Yoga
I don't sleep very much on Wednesday nights anymore. And it is not a bad thing.
See, Wednesday night is yoga night. Yes, the class is relaxing. I consistently come home happy and peaceful (which itself is a miracle). My body feels alive and my heart and mind are brimming with delicious victuals, juicy and fragrant, savory and sweet, crisp and sharp and piquant. And so I sip and stir, inhale and savor, lick my fingers and digest, until about midnight. If only journaling worked for me. I envy you journalers sometimes, with your quick-chicken-scratch-and-then-set-it-aside.
I've been trying for weeks to write all this down, organized, making sense outside my mind. I've been trying to defend my desire to practice yoga to all the people who seem to wonder if I'm balking on my faith in Christ by doing something so "eastern" and "mystical" (who seem not to realize that Judeo-Christianity is an eastern religious system and boasts as rich a mystical tradition as any other world religion—but I digress). But you know what? Yoga needs no defense.
(At this point, I must issue a plea to my dear yoga-teacher and longtime-practitioner friends: if what I'm thinking is out of line, if you must point out a wrong thought or motive, please be gentle. I really need you to be gentle.)
Yoga is something of which I sincerely believe I am capable—another miracle. It's something I need to achieve, something essential, blood and water. Something I lack. The word yoga means "union": body and soul, mind and heart, woman and earth, woman and God. I don't care if I never stand on my head or fold my face through my knees; I'm not in pursuit of physical prowess for its own sake. My mind and my heart operate in isolation from each other, except when my heart rages at my mind and my mind scolds my heart, grenades and rocks flying to and fro, the crossfire bloodying my soul. My body has been violated over and over, and my self-protective escapes from my body have alienated me from it. I don't know it. I don't trust it to hold me kindly or carry me safely.
And all this strife and suspicion drowns out God's constant-but-gentle voice. I am so not down with that.
I want to practice yoga, quieting my mind and returning to my body, hearing and feeling myself, telling myself patiently "you can do this," as part of my journey away from this internal chaos. My friend Andree has been telling me for years to open my heart. She says it all the time, "remember to open your heart." But I didn't understand what she meant until a few weeks ago, when Tamie told me the same thing. My heart doesn't open easily—all kinds of tight muscles and bad habits and padlocks keep it sealed. But here's the thing about this class: my teacher is my friend. And being near a friend does a lot to loosen those locks.
So when she asks me to work my body with an open heart, I can manage it. Man. Doing physical things in the midst of other people is so, so hard for me. Biking, dancing, swimming, whatever. It makes me feel vulnerable, like a mother animal in the throes of childbirth surrounded by peckish predators. But somehow, in yoga class I feel safe. Safe! This is huge! I don't feel rushed or pushed or ashamed. No one is waiting for me to trip. No one shouts at me when I'm not perfect. In fact, there is no perfect. Perfection isn't the point. Efficiency isn't the point. There is no finish line, no "faster, faster," no dominating or losing. No one works against me, and I work against no one. What matters is not how quickly I can get the job done.
What matters is who I am. Who I am matters. What is in me is worthwhile and good. There is something worthwhile and good in me. And what I can do is enough. What I can do is enough. I don't need to be more than what I am to be okay. I can hardly bear the exquisite relief of finally taking this in.
And then there's my breath. Tamie has mentioned the grace in my breath. Sometimes I meditate on my breath, the gift of each inhale, the fullness, the purge of each exhale. This is grace in my life, my continued existence. In meditating on my breath, in embracing the grace it represents, I can accept my existence as good, as a gift. I can be grateful for each moment and release the shame and guilt of being here, occupying space here on earth. I can accept God's kindness to me, honor his presence within me instead of wondering what the heck he was thinking when he made me. Because, really, being ashamed of myself is being ashamed of God's work. Practicing yoga allows me to accept my being made in the image of God, the divine treasure nestled in my frail earthen body.
And I am frail. Frail and inflexible. I am practicing yoga to be strong, to learn how to bend without breaking. To love myself exactly where I am on my journey, and to embrace the journey. To let go of longing for the destination. To let go of what is missing in me, even to realize that nothing is missing and that I am whole, right now, just as I am. To stretch, breathe through the intensity of it, and grow. To hold on when I want to quit, one breath more, one breath more, one breath more.
Tamie said two weeks ago that injury is never part of this process of stretching and breathing and growing. I'm grateful that no one could hear the astonished sob of revelation and relief that escaped my soul when her tender words took root. When it hurts, if I back off, I acknowledge that my body's violators were wrong. Hurting me was not okay, is not okay. When I heed my body's "Stop! No!" I am whole again. When I allow myself to be hurt, I exist in a crippled state, always needing healing, always catching up. But it's okay to protect myself from harm. It's okay to operate within my limits. It's okay to be only what I am, to do only what I can do.
Yoga class is light and joyful. People laugh. There are friends there. There are pregnant women there! Everyone is learning something.
In the final pose, lying on the floor in the dark, I am overwhelmed by the oneness of it all and my place in it. Below me, the earth pulls me to itself, it supports and sustains me, cradles me. All that is above me presses down, blankets and envelops me, caresses me. And there I am in the middle. Supported and protected. Belonging on the earth, belonging to the maker of the earth. Belonging with my friend-who-is-my-teacher, with my classmates, within my body. There is love in that moment, love that I need, and I am blessed.
See, Wednesday night is yoga night. Yes, the class is relaxing. I consistently come home happy and peaceful (which itself is a miracle). My body feels alive and my heart and mind are brimming with delicious victuals, juicy and fragrant, savory and sweet, crisp and sharp and piquant. And so I sip and stir, inhale and savor, lick my fingers and digest, until about midnight. If only journaling worked for me. I envy you journalers sometimes, with your quick-chicken-scratch-and-then-set-it-aside.
I've been trying for weeks to write all this down, organized, making sense outside my mind. I've been trying to defend my desire to practice yoga to all the people who seem to wonder if I'm balking on my faith in Christ by doing something so "eastern" and "mystical" (who seem not to realize that Judeo-Christianity is an eastern religious system and boasts as rich a mystical tradition as any other world religion—but I digress). But you know what? Yoga needs no defense.
(At this point, I must issue a plea to my dear yoga-teacher and longtime-practitioner friends: if what I'm thinking is out of line, if you must point out a wrong thought or motive, please be gentle. I really need you to be gentle.)
Yoga is something of which I sincerely believe I am capable—another miracle. It's something I need to achieve, something essential, blood and water. Something I lack. The word yoga means "union": body and soul, mind and heart, woman and earth, woman and God. I don't care if I never stand on my head or fold my face through my knees; I'm not in pursuit of physical prowess for its own sake. My mind and my heart operate in isolation from each other, except when my heart rages at my mind and my mind scolds my heart, grenades and rocks flying to and fro, the crossfire bloodying my soul. My body has been violated over and over, and my self-protective escapes from my body have alienated me from it. I don't know it. I don't trust it to hold me kindly or carry me safely.
And all this strife and suspicion drowns out God's constant-but-gentle voice. I am so not down with that.
I want to practice yoga, quieting my mind and returning to my body, hearing and feeling myself, telling myself patiently "you can do this," as part of my journey away from this internal chaos. My friend Andree has been telling me for years to open my heart. She says it all the time, "remember to open your heart." But I didn't understand what she meant until a few weeks ago, when Tamie told me the same thing. My heart doesn't open easily—all kinds of tight muscles and bad habits and padlocks keep it sealed. But here's the thing about this class: my teacher is my friend. And being near a friend does a lot to loosen those locks.
So when she asks me to work my body with an open heart, I can manage it. Man. Doing physical things in the midst of other people is so, so hard for me. Biking, dancing, swimming, whatever. It makes me feel vulnerable, like a mother animal in the throes of childbirth surrounded by peckish predators. But somehow, in yoga class I feel safe. Safe! This is huge! I don't feel rushed or pushed or ashamed. No one is waiting for me to trip. No one shouts at me when I'm not perfect. In fact, there is no perfect. Perfection isn't the point. Efficiency isn't the point. There is no finish line, no "faster, faster," no dominating or losing. No one works against me, and I work against no one. What matters is not how quickly I can get the job done.
What matters is who I am. Who I am matters. What is in me is worthwhile and good. There is something worthwhile and good in me. And what I can do is enough. What I can do is enough. I don't need to be more than what I am to be okay. I can hardly bear the exquisite relief of finally taking this in.
And then there's my breath. Tamie has mentioned the grace in my breath. Sometimes I meditate on my breath, the gift of each inhale, the fullness, the purge of each exhale. This is grace in my life, my continued existence. In meditating on my breath, in embracing the grace it represents, I can accept my existence as good, as a gift. I can be grateful for each moment and release the shame and guilt of being here, occupying space here on earth. I can accept God's kindness to me, honor his presence within me instead of wondering what the heck he was thinking when he made me. Because, really, being ashamed of myself is being ashamed of God's work. Practicing yoga allows me to accept my being made in the image of God, the divine treasure nestled in my frail earthen body.
And I am frail. Frail and inflexible. I am practicing yoga to be strong, to learn how to bend without breaking. To love myself exactly where I am on my journey, and to embrace the journey. To let go of longing for the destination. To let go of what is missing in me, even to realize that nothing is missing and that I am whole, right now, just as I am. To stretch, breathe through the intensity of it, and grow. To hold on when I want to quit, one breath more, one breath more, one breath more.
Tamie said two weeks ago that injury is never part of this process of stretching and breathing and growing. I'm grateful that no one could hear the astonished sob of revelation and relief that escaped my soul when her tender words took root. When it hurts, if I back off, I acknowledge that my body's violators were wrong. Hurting me was not okay, is not okay. When I heed my body's "Stop! No!" I am whole again. When I allow myself to be hurt, I exist in a crippled state, always needing healing, always catching up. But it's okay to protect myself from harm. It's okay to operate within my limits. It's okay to be only what I am, to do only what I can do.
Yoga class is light and joyful. People laugh. There are friends there. There are pregnant women there! Everyone is learning something.
In the final pose, lying on the floor in the dark, I am overwhelmed by the oneness of it all and my place in it. Below me, the earth pulls me to itself, it supports and sustains me, cradles me. All that is above me presses down, blankets and envelops me, caresses me. And there I am in the middle. Supported and protected. Belonging on the earth, belonging to the maker of the earth. Belonging with my friend-who-is-my-teacher, with my classmates, within my body. There is love in that moment, love that I need, and I am blessed.
02 February 2010
To Be a Goose
I when I got home today, I had had it with all this stuffy, cooped-up being inside. Ugh. Triple ugh. And so.
On went the long johns and the thick corduroys and the three undershirts and the hulking wool sweater and the two pairs of socks and the new hiking boots and the gloves and the down coat and the alpaca hat (it was 38 degrees outside, after all). And I made my beeline, friends.
Into the woods, that's where I went. The placid, fathomless, spectral, restorative woods. I climbed down to the edge of a stream, burrowed into a cushy mound of frozen sticks, and had a sit-down with myself. We worked through some twisted-up inside stuff, resting by that stream, myself and I. And then, on down the trail. I found a tree fallen across the stream, which I will surely cross when the water is no longer cold enough to kill me with its breath, and a random old stairway to nowhere. Yes. Right in the middle of the woods.
And then.
Honk. Honk honk.
Honkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk.
I look to the sky, and hundreds of geese are passing overhead. Hundreds! I've never seen so darn many geese! They darkened the sky with the expanse of their collective. They were headed toward the lake, and, thus, so was I. Wait for me, geese! I cried to them (not really).
And they beat me. By the time I got to the lake, it was covered with geese geese geese, gazillions of geese, all honking and preening and waddling and flapping and snuggling. I settled down on a stone and watched. And listened. They all knew I was there. The closest geese flapped in my direction at first, and turned to honk a warning to their chums. But I didn't move, and they got cozier with me, closer. And then, the symphony. Have you ever heard geese singing? Well, I have. Back and forth, across throng, they honked their little goose-hearts out, in rhythm, a melody. They'd quiet down to a whisper and then crescendo up to a roar, honkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk!
And never have I wanted so much to be a goose. Geese are never alone. They always have each other, they roam together, the strongest breaking the wind resistance for the weakest, no one ever being left behind. Oh friends, I wish we were all geese, so we could just drop our defenses and be together, all of us, waddling and preening and singing together, eating and sleeping and flying together. If we were geese, I could shroud a fallen comrade with my wings, shield her from the rain, help her to rest, and then nudge her with my beak back up into the starry sky. How I wish none of my friends ever felt like she was facing the darkness alone. I wish it with every tiny bit of my heart.
It started to get dark, so when the goose song ended, I got up to leave. And as I walked away, the geese honked as resounding goodbye to me. They had voted me in, as an honorary goose. I sure will miss my new family. Godspeed to them on their journey to Gooseland.
On went the long johns and the thick corduroys and the three undershirts and the hulking wool sweater and the two pairs of socks and the new hiking boots and the gloves and the down coat and the alpaca hat (it was 38 degrees outside, after all). And I made my beeline, friends.
Into the woods, that's where I went. The placid, fathomless, spectral, restorative woods. I climbed down to the edge of a stream, burrowed into a cushy mound of frozen sticks, and had a sit-down with myself. We worked through some twisted-up inside stuff, resting by that stream, myself and I. And then, on down the trail. I found a tree fallen across the stream, which I will surely cross when the water is no longer cold enough to kill me with its breath, and a random old stairway to nowhere. Yes. Right in the middle of the woods.
And then.
Honk. Honk honk.
Honkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk.
I look to the sky, and hundreds of geese are passing overhead. Hundreds! I've never seen so darn many geese! They darkened the sky with the expanse of their collective. They were headed toward the lake, and, thus, so was I. Wait for me, geese! I cried to them (not really).
And they beat me. By the time I got to the lake, it was covered with geese geese geese, gazillions of geese, all honking and preening and waddling and flapping and snuggling. I settled down on a stone and watched. And listened. They all knew I was there. The closest geese flapped in my direction at first, and turned to honk a warning to their chums. But I didn't move, and they got cozier with me, closer. And then, the symphony. Have you ever heard geese singing? Well, I have. Back and forth, across throng, they honked their little goose-hearts out, in rhythm, a melody. They'd quiet down to a whisper and then crescendo up to a roar, honkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk!
And never have I wanted so much to be a goose. Geese are never alone. They always have each other, they roam together, the strongest breaking the wind resistance for the weakest, no one ever being left behind. Oh friends, I wish we were all geese, so we could just drop our defenses and be together, all of us, waddling and preening and singing together, eating and sleeping and flying together. If we were geese, I could shroud a fallen comrade with my wings, shield her from the rain, help her to rest, and then nudge her with my beak back up into the starry sky. How I wish none of my friends ever felt like she was facing the darkness alone. I wish it with every tiny bit of my heart.
It started to get dark, so when the goose song ended, I got up to leave. And as I walked away, the geese honked as resounding goodbye to me. They had voted me in, as an honorary goose. I sure will miss my new family. Godspeed to them on their journey to Gooseland.
On "Loving" the "Sinner"
"When you withhold love to make someone stop sinning, they don't learn to hate sin; they learn to distrust love." —my friend Jen's Facebook status last night
Few things make me sadder than when people reject their friends because they disapprove of their friends' choices. If your love cannot withstand your friend's failure (or growth), it isn't love. Jesus broke bread with the man who had sold him to murderers. He also entrusted the care of his people to someone who had pretended not to know him. And some of his closest companions were prostitutes.
And raise your hand if being rejected by someone you love has ever made you want to change the way you live your life. Raise your hand if being rejected by someone you love has made you reticent in opening yourself to love, even (especially) God's love?
That's what I thought.
Sermon over.
Few things make me sadder than when people reject their friends because they disapprove of their friends' choices. If your love cannot withstand your friend's failure (or growth), it isn't love. Jesus broke bread with the man who had sold him to murderers. He also entrusted the care of his people to someone who had pretended not to know him. And some of his closest companions were prostitutes.
And raise your hand if being rejected by someone you love has ever made you want to change the way you live your life. Raise your hand if being rejected by someone you love has made you reticent in opening yourself to love, even (especially) God's love?
That's what I thought.
Sermon over.
01 February 2010
Old Cold, New Cronies
I've been attempting to write an essay explaining my fascination with yoga for days. It's coming verrrrrrrry sloooooooowly. Like most things I do. I have half a post written on that too.
February is when the relief of January begins to wear off and I start to fantasize about being outside. About five times in the last two days, I've nearly bolted out the door and made a beeline for the woods, hoping to be far enough away from my house before noticing the tiny, tiny temperature that I'd just say to hell with having circulation in my appendages! and stay out for a while. Then, I check to see just how tiny the temperature is. Then, I remember that I have to teach -μι verbs this week. Then I decide, defeated, to stay in and study. I feel like a bug trapped between two window panes, the hermetically sealed kind, and my little bug-lungs are feeling taxed in the low-oxygen environment (do bugs have lungs?). Don't ask how I managed to get my little bug-self trapped between two hermetically sealed window panes. Just get me out of here!!!
Here is the news from Amyland:
Kevin and I have joined a fellowship group. The people are all in our church and all around our age (ish). Unlike all the other small groups at our church, we meet every Sunday, eat a full meal together, hang out for about 4 hours, and won't stop meeting in the summer. (Does anyone else feel frustrated and empty and faked out when you're told "Be in a small group so you can have community!" but you only see the people twice a month and you're expected to stop meeting for 25% of the year, and when you are together all you do is study the Bible rather than talking and engaging in each other's lives?) An integral part of the evening is reading a bedtime story to the hosts' two-year-old son and high-fiving him all the way to bed. So cool.
It feels good to be part of a group. But it's hard to0, on many levels. First of all, making new friends can be an abyss of stressed-outedness for me, especially when those new friends clearly do not share many of my passions, and so I must hold so much of myself inside. But then, isn't that always the case in being-together? I have to remind myself that it is me, really; I'm the one who has a harder time than most at holding myself in. I grab one wayward strand and another whips free in the wind. A tame tongue I have not, nor a tame heart.
Second, I don't love any of these people yet, not in the way I love my loved ones anyway. And so, I wish the people I loved were there. If all goes according to hope, this will change, and they will be new loved ones, and I'll be just as happy with my new loved ones as I am with my less-new and old loved ones.
And third, as usual, my husband and I seem to be the only egalitarian feminist progressive granola-heads in the bunch. Alas. One would think I'd suck it up and get used to this state of affairs after nearly seven years in Indiana. After all, conservatives are people too, and can be kind, compassionate, thoughtful people. Between universal–health care protests anyway. I know, not all conservatives are scrooges. But the scrooges rob me of faith in the whole lot.
And so I hope we will be mutually refreshed and sharpened. I'm always saying that I want my life to be marked by love for the not-like-me. I do hope this becomes that. I need more people in my life to love.
And um. I guess that's all that's new in Amyland. I didn't sleep well last night, so my thoughts are garbled. Please pray for a warmish, dryish day to defer my demise. If I don't see a bird soon, I may develop a twitch.
February is when the relief of January begins to wear off and I start to fantasize about being outside. About five times in the last two days, I've nearly bolted out the door and made a beeline for the woods, hoping to be far enough away from my house before noticing the tiny, tiny temperature that I'd just say to hell with having circulation in my appendages! and stay out for a while. Then, I check to see just how tiny the temperature is. Then, I remember that I have to teach -μι verbs this week. Then I decide, defeated, to stay in and study. I feel like a bug trapped between two window panes, the hermetically sealed kind, and my little bug-lungs are feeling taxed in the low-oxygen environment (do bugs have lungs?). Don't ask how I managed to get my little bug-self trapped between two hermetically sealed window panes. Just get me out of here!!!
Here is the news from Amyland:
Kevin and I have joined a fellowship group. The people are all in our church and all around our age (ish). Unlike all the other small groups at our church, we meet every Sunday, eat a full meal together, hang out for about 4 hours, and won't stop meeting in the summer. (Does anyone else feel frustrated and empty and faked out when you're told "Be in a small group so you can have community!" but you only see the people twice a month and you're expected to stop meeting for 25% of the year, and when you are together all you do is study the Bible rather than talking and engaging in each other's lives?) An integral part of the evening is reading a bedtime story to the hosts' two-year-old son and high-fiving him all the way to bed. So cool.
It feels good to be part of a group. But it's hard to0, on many levels. First of all, making new friends can be an abyss of stressed-outedness for me, especially when those new friends clearly do not share many of my passions, and so I must hold so much of myself inside. But then, isn't that always the case in being-together? I have to remind myself that it is me, really; I'm the one who has a harder time than most at holding myself in. I grab one wayward strand and another whips free in the wind. A tame tongue I have not, nor a tame heart.
Second, I don't love any of these people yet, not in the way I love my loved ones anyway. And so, I wish the people I loved were there. If all goes according to hope, this will change, and they will be new loved ones, and I'll be just as happy with my new loved ones as I am with my less-new and old loved ones.
And third, as usual, my husband and I seem to be the only egalitarian feminist progressive granola-heads in the bunch. Alas. One would think I'd suck it up and get used to this state of affairs after nearly seven years in Indiana. After all, conservatives are people too, and can be kind, compassionate, thoughtful people. Between universal–health care protests anyway. I know, not all conservatives are scrooges. But the scrooges rob me of faith in the whole lot.
And so I hope we will be mutually refreshed and sharpened. I'm always saying that I want my life to be marked by love for the not-like-me. I do hope this becomes that. I need more people in my life to love.
And um. I guess that's all that's new in Amyland. I didn't sleep well last night, so my thoughts are garbled. Please pray for a warmish, dryish day to defer my demise. If I don't see a bird soon, I may develop a twitch.
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