An exercise for inspiration: begin to write (write!) for two minutes. But you MUST stop after two minutes. Then circle any word from that piece, and begin writing with that word for another two minutes. Repeat. Here is my first loop.
____________________________________
Travel Time.
When you leave the house eventually,
maybe early in the morning,
with no guarantees.
Maybe you will not sleep in a bed tonight.
Maybe you will not sleep, because you are stopped at the border between the U.S.A. and Canada. And the police are inspecting your car.
____________________________________________
Guarantees.
You said "I do."
You exchanged rings.
And yet
it's just whatever.
People tell you both that
breaking this union is
unholy, impossible,
even. Just as you can't
pull apart a golden
circle.
Oh
but you can melt it in fire.
What better symbol can
we exchange?
A heart? A lung?
Bone of my bone
flesh of my flesh.
_______________________________________________
Impossible.
She only has one arm that works. But she is determined to climb the rock wall. So she gets the harness situated, with help. And Wendell holds the ropes, and she begins an ascent.
Impossible.
But she is not alone. Her twin sister uses her two good arms to hoist herself up, just beside her. And with the strength of three arms, they go up, up--to the top.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Hurtful Words
"Oh, that word," Grandpa responded. I looked up into his big eyes, so full of mystery to me then. "That's a hurtful word. People say it when they want to hurt us, son." He was grieved, "But it doesn't hurt us. It only hurts them."
"Is that why they look so angry, Papa?"
"That's why they look so angry. They are hurting a great deal inside."
"Is that why they look so angry, Papa?"
"That's why they look so angry. They are hurting a great deal inside."
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Everything Natural
I have a hole in my vocabulary: I don't know how to describe landscape. It may be the result of a lack of nature reading. But I am more prone to believe that it comes from a lack of nature. What is a rill? A hummock? What exactly is an escarpment? It sounds like a place where fish might be bred. It gets worse when we're talking about specific types of herbage. As I read James Herriott, a Scottish author, I found myself at a blank when I tried to imagine his environment. I finally gave in and web-searched what peat moss and heather looked like.
My vocabulary hole is even more apparent when I try to write about my environs. I don't even know the name of the tree outside my window. In the summer, its greenery is vibrant enough to obstruct intrusive eyes. In the wintertime, said tree drops its leaves onto our porch from which they are swept into the road to be removed by the street cleaners (which I never see, but know exist, because they are religious about ticketing vehicles). Even after discarding its leaves, long green pods remain on the branches. Throughout the winter, these pods become more and more translucent, revealing small black seeds inside, which obligingly take up the office of the leaves and scatter themselves about our porch, to be swept into the road and then removed by the unseen, yet fastidious, street cleaners. Through my long and fervent commerce with this tree, I have yet to learn its name, or any of its virtues as a plant. As a city-dweller, it merely gets in my way; much like the tree a few houses down which excretes a sap that smells like vomit, and has accordingly been dubbed the vomit tree.
I'm out of touch, you see.
I don't know nature,
and she doesn't know me.
I haven't felt the earth with
my bare, soft feet
in I-don't-know-how-long!
...It may be getting to me.
I remember living in smaller towns growing up. I wasn't so far removed then. I could hike in the woods, and did often. I knew the smaller parks and hiking trails nearby with an almost shameful intimacy. I didn't often feel hungry or tired there. Sometimes, it was a marvel how deeply I lost myself in sunlight and trees. I wanted to be a part of them. Some force would pull me off the trail, to know the outside of the trail, and maybe actually know it... nature, something. Once off the trail, my desire would only grow. There was more, where was it? Knowing tree names wasn't enough, I had to be a part of it, get inside. I would climb a tree, or stoop to the mosses, inspecting the insides of logs. But that tugging does not just go away. Sometimes, in fact, my dissatisfaction rose to anger.
Not long ago, I was visiting Longwood Gardens with my grandparents. While there, I compared it to my first time to Longwood, ten years ago. I had felt that dissatisfied longing to be in nature. I remember how awful it was to be in such an achingly beautiful place, and somehow not really know it. But something was different this trip. As I walked through the conservatory, I felt like singing to God! I felt as though I had to worship and adore the Creator, or I would burst all over the lovely orchids. I smiled dumbly, room after room of incredible colors, each representing a vast framework of design. The longing was still there, but smaller. As I thanked God in prayer for His unrestrained, immoderate beauty, I knew that I was a part of it.
My vocabulary hole is even more apparent when I try to write about my environs. I don't even know the name of the tree outside my window. In the summer, its greenery is vibrant enough to obstruct intrusive eyes. In the wintertime, said tree drops its leaves onto our porch from which they are swept into the road to be removed by the street cleaners (which I never see, but know exist, because they are religious about ticketing vehicles). Even after discarding its leaves, long green pods remain on the branches. Throughout the winter, these pods become more and more translucent, revealing small black seeds inside, which obligingly take up the office of the leaves and scatter themselves about our porch, to be swept into the road and then removed by the unseen, yet fastidious, street cleaners. Through my long and fervent commerce with this tree, I have yet to learn its name, or any of its virtues as a plant. As a city-dweller, it merely gets in my way; much like the tree a few houses down which excretes a sap that smells like vomit, and has accordingly been dubbed the vomit tree.
I'm out of touch, you see.
I don't know nature,
and she doesn't know me.
I haven't felt the earth with
my bare, soft feet
in I-don't-know-how-long!
...It may be getting to me.
I remember living in smaller towns growing up. I wasn't so far removed then. I could hike in the woods, and did often. I knew the smaller parks and hiking trails nearby with an almost shameful intimacy. I didn't often feel hungry or tired there. Sometimes, it was a marvel how deeply I lost myself in sunlight and trees. I wanted to be a part of them. Some force would pull me off the trail, to know the outside of the trail, and maybe actually know it... nature, something. Once off the trail, my desire would only grow. There was more, where was it? Knowing tree names wasn't enough, I had to be a part of it, get inside. I would climb a tree, or stoop to the mosses, inspecting the insides of logs. But that tugging does not just go away. Sometimes, in fact, my dissatisfaction rose to anger.
Not long ago, I was visiting Longwood Gardens with my grandparents. While there, I compared it to my first time to Longwood, ten years ago. I had felt that dissatisfied longing to be in nature. I remember how awful it was to be in such an achingly beautiful place, and somehow not really know it. But something was different this trip. As I walked through the conservatory, I felt like singing to God! I felt as though I had to worship and adore the Creator, or I would burst all over the lovely orchids. I smiled dumbly, room after room of incredible colors, each representing a vast framework of design. The longing was still there, but smaller. As I thanked God in prayer for His unrestrained, immoderate beauty, I knew that I was a part of it.
The Bad Boy Question
Why do nice girls fall for bad boys? I think Jodi and I may have routed out an acceptable, though incriminating answer. We have seen it often enough. It sure looks like a plausible answer to what has plagued onlookers for ages.
It seems to be a latent power struggle. A girl sees a young man who respects no one, has an authority problem, digs "freedom," that is, autonomy. He has ascribed to some number of undesirable trends that make her parents cringe a bit when he enters the room. She just laughs at their galled souls, feeling that she has won her own independence.
But this young guy apparently really loves this girl, whom everyone has always called simply "nice." He hangs on her every word. He promises to change, all for her. And maybe he will. But he probably won't.
The girl will tell herself that she owes it to the world to go on trying to reform the reprobate. It is her duty, after all. She is all that he really trusts, all that he really believes to be genuine.
Then they will argue. And he will not give in. And she will be hurt, unwilling to believe that he would refuse her the only thing that she ever thought she was gaining: ultimate control. She selfishly loves him for how she might wield him, like a sharp knife or a sleek gun.
It seems to be a latent power struggle. A girl sees a young man who respects no one, has an authority problem, digs "freedom," that is, autonomy. He has ascribed to some number of undesirable trends that make her parents cringe a bit when he enters the room. She just laughs at their galled souls, feeling that she has won her own independence.
But this young guy apparently really loves this girl, whom everyone has always called simply "nice." He hangs on her every word. He promises to change, all for her. And maybe he will. But he probably won't.
The girl will tell herself that she owes it to the world to go on trying to reform the reprobate. It is her duty, after all. She is all that he really trusts, all that he really believes to be genuine.
Then they will argue. And he will not give in. And she will be hurt, unwilling to believe that he would refuse her the only thing that she ever thought she was gaining: ultimate control. She selfishly loves him for how she might wield him, like a sharp knife or a sleek gun.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
RateMyProfessor.com
seems to be a site where people go to complain that college is hard.
Suck. It. Up.
(Or blog about it...)
Suck. It. Up.
(Or blog about it...)
Monday, January 11, 2010
Gardens and Grandparents
Now and then, the alarm clock and I are friends. On Thursday, at six am, I truly appreciated it. I quickly dressed and added a few items to my backpack. I gulped a glass of water then reached for my keys, closing the door quietly and facing the freezing air of morning. Thin snowflakes whipped about my heavy head as I turned toward the train station, taking the route down James, then Queen street to stay in the streetlights. [Hmm, streetlights: do they give one company, or make a lonely walk even lonelier merely by their contrast at the very moments when one might have accustomed herself to the darkness?]
The train station was lit with high chandeliers and in motion with commuters and a few droopy-eyed travelers like myself. On the train, I began to focus on my book, but I put it down in short time, noticing that the east was brightening ever so slightly. Around me, professional people picked up binders and pens and text messages beeped.
We reached the Downingtown station. I was the only one to get off, while a dozen alighted to take my place. I saw Grandma and Grandpa, snugly wrapped to ward off the windy morning. The sky was fully awake now.
We talked and laughed at our breakfast in their sunny kitchen, anticipating our day together. Grandma politely asked if Grandpa wouldn't mind her driving to Longwood, for we both knew he would get confused, and she would be reminding him of our destination the whole time. He consented with a humorous grace and opened her door for her, as he has done for the past 52 years.
My stomach full, and the sun in my eyes, I fought sleep as we wound around a few back roads to reach the gardens. We entered Longwood with few other visitors. We had the gardens to ourselves so early on a weekday, and we explored the treehouses and hiked around the back ways toward the pond. I resisted the urge to run toward the meadow to the left. A green pathway extended far off the road over a rill and into a grove of firs. The walk would have worn out my companions unnecessarily, and we decided on an early lunch at the Terrace cafe.
We stayed over an hour at lunch, talking about the most important things: baptism, the Holy Spirit, family, coffee, teaching, hospitality. It turns out my grandparents know a thing or two about what makes guests comfortable, and I was glad to learn from them by experience. My grandmother once took a class on flower arrangement, and ever since has created a centerpiece for the table when hosting, giving it as a favor to her guests.
I had almost forgotten that we had yet to visit the Conservatory. It was all the more spectacular because I had not been expecting it! We passed through walks of dapper cyclamen, poinsettias arranged around decorated Christmas trees, one of which had a thousand electric-blue butterflies, slowly flapping their wings! I explored the children's labyrinth of fountains. We entered the orchid room... if only I could tell you! Then the palm room, which they maintain at a balmy 80 degrees. It was the first time I'd been that kind of warm in months! I wanted to remain in the very midst of it all, clinging to a large palm leaf and drop into the center of the rainforest below the walkway. But Grandma moved us on at a stunning pace for a woman of 75 years. On and on we went, room after room of sunlight and green and moisture. We whipped through the desert room, always my favorite, and took seats in the rose room. It was there where I finally realized how much I missed summertime, and how rejuvenated I felt.
Spring is not so far away, after all. We passed a Magnolia tree with buds.
Back at home, we played cards and talked about the news. Grandma always has stories to tell me about both sides of my family, for she was good friends with my father's family, as well. I listened. Then we sat down at the piano and we sang until my voice went hoarse. I'm still not recovered.
I was refreshed. Their slower, steadier burn of energy renewed my spirits. I felt what some people feel their whole lives and never know it: belonging. This is a place where I find pictures of myself through the years on their walls. This is a place where we talk, and we both have a right to say whatever will benefit the other. When I return with them to the gardens in the spring, I'll bound up that hill in the meadow, nothing can possibly stop me.
The train station was lit with high chandeliers and in motion with commuters and a few droopy-eyed travelers like myself. On the train, I began to focus on my book, but I put it down in short time, noticing that the east was brightening ever so slightly. Around me, professional people picked up binders and pens and text messages beeped.
We reached the Downingtown station. I was the only one to get off, while a dozen alighted to take my place. I saw Grandma and Grandpa, snugly wrapped to ward off the windy morning. The sky was fully awake now.
We talked and laughed at our breakfast in their sunny kitchen, anticipating our day together. Grandma politely asked if Grandpa wouldn't mind her driving to Longwood, for we both knew he would get confused, and she would be reminding him of our destination the whole time. He consented with a humorous grace and opened her door for her, as he has done for the past 52 years.
My stomach full, and the sun in my eyes, I fought sleep as we wound around a few back roads to reach the gardens. We entered Longwood with few other visitors. We had the gardens to ourselves so early on a weekday, and we explored the treehouses and hiked around the back ways toward the pond. I resisted the urge to run toward the meadow to the left. A green pathway extended far off the road over a rill and into a grove of firs. The walk would have worn out my companions unnecessarily, and we decided on an early lunch at the Terrace cafe.
We stayed over an hour at lunch, talking about the most important things: baptism, the Holy Spirit, family, coffee, teaching, hospitality. It turns out my grandparents know a thing or two about what makes guests comfortable, and I was glad to learn from them by experience. My grandmother once took a class on flower arrangement, and ever since has created a centerpiece for the table when hosting, giving it as a favor to her guests.
I had almost forgotten that we had yet to visit the Conservatory. It was all the more spectacular because I had not been expecting it! We passed through walks of dapper cyclamen, poinsettias arranged around decorated Christmas trees, one of which had a thousand electric-blue butterflies, slowly flapping their wings! I explored the children's labyrinth of fountains. We entered the orchid room... if only I could tell you! Then the palm room, which they maintain at a balmy 80 degrees. It was the first time I'd been that kind of warm in months! I wanted to remain in the very midst of it all, clinging to a large palm leaf and drop into the center of the rainforest below the walkway. But Grandma moved us on at a stunning pace for a woman of 75 years. On and on we went, room after room of sunlight and green and moisture. We whipped through the desert room, always my favorite, and took seats in the rose room. It was there where I finally realized how much I missed summertime, and how rejuvenated I felt.
Spring is not so far away, after all. We passed a Magnolia tree with buds.
Back at home, we played cards and talked about the news. Grandma always has stories to tell me about both sides of my family, for she was good friends with my father's family, as well. I listened. Then we sat down at the piano and we sang until my voice went hoarse. I'm still not recovered.
I was refreshed. Their slower, steadier burn of energy renewed my spirits. I felt what some people feel their whole lives and never know it: belonging. This is a place where I find pictures of myself through the years on their walls. This is a place where we talk, and we both have a right to say whatever will benefit the other. When I return with them to the gardens in the spring, I'll bound up that hill in the meadow, nothing can possibly stop me.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
A Reading Recommendation
Excluding the Bible, I only recommend Stepping Heavenward, by Elizabeth Prentiss. Ladies may find this more pertinent than gentlemen, but it's a beautiful read no matter who you are.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Thoughts on Hospitality
Hospitality is so close to my heart that I hesitate to write about it publicly. I don't know when exactly I started thinking about it. But I have a feeling that it has been growing inside me ever since I was a child, always a guest in the home of a babysitter while mom was at work; always in someone else's house in the very midst of their lives.
I want to be as hospitable as possible. But, honestly, I have no idea what it means to be so. Todd says it's a matter of attitude--he feels comfortable when the host is happy. Lachelle says it's allowing people freedom--free cupboard access, freedom to go to sleep or wake up as they please. Bill says it's a matter of "food and drink, and plenty of it!"
I am beginning to believe that hospitality requires some self-discipline. It seems to be saying, 'I am giving what I have for your benefit, even that which is as close as the same food I eat and the same floor I walk on.' Welcoming someone into one's home is humbling: one does not keep one's guests company, they keep the host company--the guests are bestowing the honor upon the host. Pastor Josef did not know he was teaching me hospitality when he said that as a young man he made up his mind that no one should be lonely if he could help it. So long as he was in the room, he would find the lonely people. As he seeks them out, the once lonely person finds that he or she is received as an honored guest in his presence. What a gift to love people that much! It must be a discipline.
What's more, it is a sacred charge. A person is trusting a host with his or her own well-being for some duration of time. Naturally, when we take up such a responsibility, many blessings follow, regardless of the guest's state of gratitude.
This is a study which I am gladly undertaking. Though hospitality may not be in my nature, I hope to practice all my life, and to pray for it long enough that God must give ear.
I want to be as hospitable as possible. But, honestly, I have no idea what it means to be so. Todd says it's a matter of attitude--he feels comfortable when the host is happy. Lachelle says it's allowing people freedom--free cupboard access, freedom to go to sleep or wake up as they please. Bill says it's a matter of "food and drink, and plenty of it!"
I am beginning to believe that hospitality requires some self-discipline. It seems to be saying, 'I am giving what I have for your benefit, even that which is as close as the same food I eat and the same floor I walk on.' Welcoming someone into one's home is humbling: one does not keep one's guests company, they keep the host company--the guests are bestowing the honor upon the host. Pastor Josef did not know he was teaching me hospitality when he said that as a young man he made up his mind that no one should be lonely if he could help it. So long as he was in the room, he would find the lonely people. As he seeks them out, the once lonely person finds that he or she is received as an honored guest in his presence. What a gift to love people that much! It must be a discipline.
What's more, it is a sacred charge. A person is trusting a host with his or her own well-being for some duration of time. Naturally, when we take up such a responsibility, many blessings follow, regardless of the guest's state of gratitude.
This is a study which I am gladly undertaking. Though hospitality may not be in my nature, I hope to practice all my life, and to pray for it long enough that God must give ear.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
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