To contain, to hold a word loud enough to overpower the memory if both placed in the killing jar that had become his present, knowing desperately that the word would win. We wanted something nice, something decorative, something he could give an aunt for her birthday, but this wasn't it. He knew it, but he went ahead and wrapped it between two heavy pieces of butcher paper tied with baling twine. The card read:
Happy birthday. The truth is there were times my suffering overpowered me, pressed me between what had happened, how I had not been able to stop it, between how I remember it inch by inch and the single, life altering blow that changed me at both 16 and at 30, the sharpened damage puncturing each year much like a nail driven through a deck of cards makes the same hole in the jack of clubs and the joker, the deuce and the ace.
The only difference between a hero and a victim is that one goes willingly to his suffering.
But I am willing to be wrong about that. I am willing to be wrong about a lot of things, he thought, if only you'll show me the ways in which I've been damaged gently, like a mother who washes the same thin hair again and again and again because it never will stay clean and there's no reason to hold this against anything or anyone. And her hand knows to not make a point of the healing or the harm it's doing in the same way there's no reason to continue staring through the hole when you are at least holding some kind of hand. It is what it is. Let's just accept that.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Supper Tonight
I love eating with Mom and Mike on Wednesday nights. Mom made meatloaf and baked potatoes. Asparagus. I love asparagus (steamed, never boiled, or snapped straight from the ground, crispy spring green to chew while weed-whacking--I am desperate for Spring, folks.) Oh! And strawberry shortcake--homemade. I mean, this is love. Mom love.
So, tonight Nora was reading her Bible during supper, which consisted of her opening her hands and looking down into them whispering because "I am distracted when I talk loud."
And she talked about Adam and Eve, that they didn't have dishes because there was no one to "spin pottery" yet, so they used leaves.
"Who did the dishes?" Grandpa asks.
"No one. They just threw out the leaves and got new ones, Grandpa. And this is the part where Adam turns into an alligator."
"And what did Eve turn into?" asks Grandpa.
"A hippopotamus."
And mom and I start laughing and before we know it we're replaying the scene in Madagascar:
"Girl, you HUGE."
"I like 'em chunky. I like 'em round."
And Grandpa was a little concerned. And Nora went on with a serious look on her face, reading her hands and talking about Noah and the boat he made that was over 40 inches long.
So, tonight Nora was reading her Bible during supper, which consisted of her opening her hands and looking down into them whispering because "I am distracted when I talk loud."
And she talked about Adam and Eve, that they didn't have dishes because there was no one to "spin pottery" yet, so they used leaves.
"Who did the dishes?" Grandpa asks.
"No one. They just threw out the leaves and got new ones, Grandpa. And this is the part where Adam turns into an alligator."
"And what did Eve turn into?" asks Grandpa.
"A hippopotamus."
And mom and I start laughing and before we know it we're replaying the scene in Madagascar:
"Girl, you HUGE."
"I like 'em chunky. I like 'em round."
And Grandpa was a little concerned. And Nora went on with a serious look on her face, reading her hands and talking about Noah and the boat he made that was over 40 inches long.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
When I Can't Remember the Words, Rilke Reminds Me
"He starts so deep in misery and, in a strict sense, reaches to eternal bliss; he is a heart that strikes a whole octave: after him all songs are possible."
(from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge)
(from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge)
Monday, March 28, 2011
Morning
"Not knowing when the dawn will come,
I open every door..." -E.D.
After the sun sets, I shut the drapes--we have this picture window that opens onto the day's end and sends it straight across the field, under my pin oak, into my living room and down through my throat, a sudden inhalation of wonder. "Today was good. Let me show you how good."
Seven miles down, I can see the grain elevators in Utica, the same flashing red and white antennas my mom saw at 16 in a farmhouse that has since been torn down just a mile down from where I live now. This is a sacred spot for me, I think. And for her. One day I will write about the dust storm that spread itself across every inch of mom's house and Grandma wanted to move, but mom was in love with a farmboy down the road (Mike, who she is now married to)--so she didn't sleep that night, cleaning every surface so they could stay just a little longer in this strange, flat land where she walked barefoot down the road to meet him.
And right now, this song is saving my heart. "Forget about the past, and I will try to make things right..." Open the door. The wind whips clean through, taking the dust with her.
After I have read and written and prayed, I turn out the lights and open the drapes again, inviting the white fluorescence of the shop lights to spread their shadows that will confuse Nora in the night if she wakes. And when the light comes slow in the morning, I feel the soft nudge of someone calling me into the world to work and play and suffer and lean. There is nothing as hopeless to me, other than a room that remains unlit after the sun has set, than a room that remains dark after the sun has risen.
I open every door, all the doors, and the light comes slowly back to my fingers digging through the dust.
I open every door..." -E.D.
After the sun sets, I shut the drapes--we have this picture window that opens onto the day's end and sends it straight across the field, under my pin oak, into my living room and down through my throat, a sudden inhalation of wonder. "Today was good. Let me show you how good."
Seven miles down, I can see the grain elevators in Utica, the same flashing red and white antennas my mom saw at 16 in a farmhouse that has since been torn down just a mile down from where I live now. This is a sacred spot for me, I think. And for her. One day I will write about the dust storm that spread itself across every inch of mom's house and Grandma wanted to move, but mom was in love with a farmboy down the road (Mike, who she is now married to)--so she didn't sleep that night, cleaning every surface so they could stay just a little longer in this strange, flat land where she walked barefoot down the road to meet him.
And right now, this song is saving my heart. "Forget about the past, and I will try to make things right..." Open the door. The wind whips clean through, taking the dust with her.
After I have read and written and prayed, I turn out the lights and open the drapes again, inviting the white fluorescence of the shop lights to spread their shadows that will confuse Nora in the night if she wakes. And when the light comes slow in the morning, I feel the soft nudge of someone calling me into the world to work and play and suffer and lean. There is nothing as hopeless to me, other than a room that remains unlit after the sun has set, than a room that remains dark after the sun has risen.
I open every door, all the doors, and the light comes slowly back to my fingers digging through the dust.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
A Wrinkle In Time (And on my forehead)
Do you folks remember/know Madeline L'Engle, the woman who made your trip to the book fair in elementary school the highlight of the year (along with the stamp collecting packages and choose your own adventure books)?
I am reading two of her books right now--actually, I'm looking at the stack of books on my bedside table, and I'm thankful for the visual reminder that this is what I love--this is what I have lived for--the searching soul putting heart to page to mouth to ear to soul to heart. To copy down the quotes that become the invisible tattoos that define my affections and their holiness (thank you, Keats). I love what I love for a reason. And I will continue to love these searching words until I understand fully why God put them in my heart to care for. But this is a tangent...
In Madeline's Reflections on Faith and Art, she shares the soulfood of quotes found in her own stack of bedside books, and now I pass them on to you in the hopes that they ring bells that continue sounding in your own work (as writers, artists, songsmiths, growers, newlyweds, missionaries, teachers, mothers, worshippers, searchers):
"To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one's life would not make sense if God did not exist." -- Cardinal Suhard
"You should utter words as though heaven were opened within them and as though you did not put the words into your mouth, but as though you had entered the word."
-- Martin Buber
"You must once and for all give up being worried about successes and failures. Don't let that concern you. It's your duty to go on working steadily day by day, quite quietly, to be prepared for mistakes, which are inevitable, and for failures."
-- Tchekov
"You are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you to write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all -- ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: Must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple "I must," then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it."
-- Rilke
The affections of the heart are holy...
The big questions I'm thinking about tonight: Why did God make me to love what it is that I love? And how do I love these things properly, as He would will, not as the preferences and passing fancies of this "self" but as the signs of a God who loves me so much that He would give me, in abundance, this beautiful and particular life?
I am reading two of her books right now--actually, I'm looking at the stack of books on my bedside table, and I'm thankful for the visual reminder that this is what I love--this is what I have lived for--the searching soul putting heart to page to mouth to ear to soul to heart. To copy down the quotes that become the invisible tattoos that define my affections and their holiness (thank you, Keats). I love what I love for a reason. And I will continue to love these searching words until I understand fully why God put them in my heart to care for. But this is a tangent...
In Madeline's Reflections on Faith and Art, she shares the soulfood of quotes found in her own stack of bedside books, and now I pass them on to you in the hopes that they ring bells that continue sounding in your own work (as writers, artists, songsmiths, growers, newlyweds, missionaries, teachers, mothers, worshippers, searchers):
"To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one's life would not make sense if God did not exist." -- Cardinal Suhard
"You should utter words as though heaven were opened within them and as though you did not put the words into your mouth, but as though you had entered the word."
-- Martin Buber
"You must once and for all give up being worried about successes and failures. Don't let that concern you. It's your duty to go on working steadily day by day, quite quietly, to be prepared for mistakes, which are inevitable, and for failures."
-- Tchekov
"You are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you to write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all -- ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: Must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple "I must," then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it."
-- Rilke
The affections of the heart are holy...
The big questions I'm thinking about tonight: Why did God make me to love what it is that I love? And how do I love these things properly, as He would will, not as the preferences and passing fancies of this "self" but as the signs of a God who loves me so much that He would give me, in abundance, this beautiful and particular life?
Saturday, March 26, 2011
"My List has 'Make a List' on It"
1. Up early and the Word first thing with coffee after slipping out of the bed and before the legs could even decide, the knees were on the carpet asking, "Father, bless me before I leave for the work of the day."
2. Hours on Blackboard. I know I prefer the paper better, with remnants of our human life (coffee stain, crossed out typo) proof of our work and our bodies in time. I love "good pens" drawing comments on good words written on good paper. But these electronic "papers"--I can't seem to connect to them the same way. Next semester--more paper. I need to be mobile with my work anyway. My office IS at a gas station, after all.
3. Working through discipline with Nora. Ugh. I am pushed to my limit (and my head resting on the refrigerator door, breathing), leaning completely on God to guide me in the work of patience, gentleness, firmness because of love.
4. Laundry today, so I don't have to work as much on Sunday.
5. Tomorrow Nora and I will be making seed tape strips, getting our starter plants growing, and plotting the garden. I can't stand to let this winter weather threaten my sense of an impending warmth and blossom.
6. Excited about the prospect of installing a shelf at the midpoint of the mudroom window for even more plants to perch, eating sunlight, filling my eyeheart.
7. [ ]
8. Play-doh with Nora. She has been trying to recreate the digestive system in her animal sculptures. Wanting to be encouraging I said, "Maybe one day you'll be a doctor who helps people with their digestive problems." This statement had to replace the "I just don't think we should be focussing so much on poo, Nora" one that seemed to be another "No" in a day filled with so many of those already. So, yes. Yes to proctology.
9. Deciding I would love, that I must, that God says, "Yes" to my being involved in Unfading Beauty next semester. Yes.
10. Tonight I will watch a movie about Keats that I hope isn't too terrible while eating 4 servings of popcorn. Mmmm, yes.
2. Hours on Blackboard. I know I prefer the paper better, with remnants of our human life (coffee stain, crossed out typo) proof of our work and our bodies in time. I love "good pens" drawing comments on good words written on good paper. But these electronic "papers"--I can't seem to connect to them the same way. Next semester--more paper. I need to be mobile with my work anyway. My office IS at a gas station, after all.
3. Working through discipline with Nora. Ugh. I am pushed to my limit (and my head resting on the refrigerator door, breathing), leaning completely on God to guide me in the work of patience, gentleness, firmness because of love.
4. Laundry today, so I don't have to work as much on Sunday.
5. Tomorrow Nora and I will be making seed tape strips, getting our starter plants growing, and plotting the garden. I can't stand to let this winter weather threaten my sense of an impending warmth and blossom.
6. Excited about the prospect of installing a shelf at the midpoint of the mudroom window for even more plants to perch, eating sunlight, filling my eyeheart.
7. [ ]
8. Play-doh with Nora. She has been trying to recreate the digestive system in her animal sculptures. Wanting to be encouraging I said, "Maybe one day you'll be a doctor who helps people with their digestive problems." This statement had to replace the "I just don't think we should be focussing so much on poo, Nora" one that seemed to be another "No" in a day filled with so many of those already. So, yes. Yes to proctology.
9. Deciding I would love, that I must, that God says, "Yes" to my being involved in Unfading Beauty next semester. Yes.
10. Tonight I will watch a movie about Keats that I hope isn't too terrible while eating 4 servings of popcorn. Mmmm, yes.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Little Things: Don't forget to eat the flowers!
1. Me: So how many tomato plants are you going to grow this year, Nora.
Nora: Oh, a few and a half.
Me: Beans?
Nora: Probably two or four.
2. She is also an amazing simile generator. I told her getting ready in the morning was like herding cats. She "saw" my cliche and raised me a "or like stapling feathers together." She walked away from that table a much richer lady.
3. Mrs. B and her patience. Also her willingness to examine strange rashes that appear on other children's necks. (Nora looks just fine now. I think it was probably the "all natural" cleaner we used to clean the tub yesterday. She likes to help. And we all know that helping sometimes gives us a rash.)
4. A "Mom" date with Jess and a speaker who brings me to tears when I don't want to be brought to tears, dangit. (Believe me, I asked for this "cracking up" so I won't complain.) So excited to think about a farmgirl chapter to keep each other company through the planting season and the single season. Did you know that within a 14 mile radius, there are at least three moms with ukuleles who are strumming their hearts out? Watch out for a band. That's all I'm saying.
5. A surprise visit from Mom and Mike bearing fancy pizza, a hoe and a rake for Nora and some Rosemary, Lavender, and Chives to plant. Mike even carried down all my salt for me. And I got to prove that I have amazing self-defense strategies on Mom, who is quite honestly my biggest threat next to rash inducing work. (I'm just kidding, Mom. You don't scare me.)
6. A surprise snow that put me in the worst mood. But then I watched the robins with their glowing, orange chests leaping inside the black and white world, and I was healed.
7. Tom Waits saying, "I learned everything I know from my children. And I learned everything they know, too. Basically, I've learned a lot."
8. [ ]
Nora: Oh, a few and a half.
Me: Beans?
Nora: Probably two or four.
2. She is also an amazing simile generator. I told her getting ready in the morning was like herding cats. She "saw" my cliche and raised me a "or like stapling feathers together." She walked away from that table a much richer lady.
3. Mrs. B and her patience. Also her willingness to examine strange rashes that appear on other children's necks. (Nora looks just fine now. I think it was probably the "all natural" cleaner we used to clean the tub yesterday. She likes to help. And we all know that helping sometimes gives us a rash.)
4. A "Mom" date with Jess and a speaker who brings me to tears when I don't want to be brought to tears, dangit. (Believe me, I asked for this "cracking up" so I won't complain.) So excited to think about a farmgirl chapter to keep each other company through the planting season and the single season. Did you know that within a 14 mile radius, there are at least three moms with ukuleles who are strumming their hearts out? Watch out for a band. That's all I'm saying.
5. A surprise visit from Mom and Mike bearing fancy pizza, a hoe and a rake for Nora and some Rosemary, Lavender, and Chives to plant. Mike even carried down all my salt for me. And I got to prove that I have amazing self-defense strategies on Mom, who is quite honestly my biggest threat next to rash inducing work. (I'm just kidding, Mom. You don't scare me.)
6. A surprise snow that put me in the worst mood. But then I watched the robins with their glowing, orange chests leaping inside the black and white world, and I was healed.
7. Tom Waits saying, "I learned everything I know from my children. And I learned everything they know, too. Basically, I've learned a lot."
8. [ ]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
