"Why so desolate?" I want the earthworms to ask me

Desolate despite
the company of crickets spiders, cicadas,
thousands of earthworms busily plowing beneath the new grass.

The light rains beckon them upward to take long drinks.
I can tell they are laughing together and generally making merry
at a hundred parties for which I've received no invitation nor hope of one.
Like a king in his castle with not one friend nearby,
surveying the busy populace below, he sighs.

I recognize the rain, invite it as close as the porch roof,
and we are company for each other.

Why desolate, why lonely, God?
When your Spirit ministers close by. Just here, even beside me.

Upcoming Poetry for Early Sping

Now that spring is coming and we've been married for all of eight months, it seems time to post some poems that were hitherto unpublishable.

The theme is certainly intimacy, my wonderings about what is too much, too far, yet close enough. It boiled down to questions about trust and wisdom, and how sometimes my trust of my partner was contrary to the wisdom of my teachers and community. Then again, how much of my desires were gratification or manipulation? What I mean is, how close should you get to sex when you're dating? We struggled to answer that question, and the next three days contain some poems about it.

Status: Doing All Right

It's the end of a quarter, so naturally I feel that I should be grading instead of writing this, but I'm taking a moment to evaluate my emotional state since mid-winter. I find that I took no time to slide down off of one sad farewell before leaping to another potential relationship. The pain was compounded. Maybe that's the problem with rebound relationships: you're not ready to approach the risk with a clear head; you aren't thinking about the risk, just thinking of feeling better. If and when the fall comes, it takes you by surprise because this was supposed to be your feel-good relationship, so how can it make you feel so bad?

After a month of attempts to install the Windows 10 update, I asked for help. It seemed the update had not installed after numerous attempts, but lo, and behold! thank the Lord above!, I have the beautiful privilege of using my computer. It is working for the moment, but another update could crash it. Anything could crash it. I have a new least-favorite brand, and they don't have a support center in Northern Africa, and they don't do refunds.

The job search has been a distant but real part of my daily stress. It has been the chord in a tug-of-war between trusting God and trying to be diligent, feeling like I'm not doing enough.

It seems like a lot to do, I mean... I've gotta move countries again. Gotta find a place to live when I find a job. A place that has a kitchen where everyone can hang out, living room be damned, if I have to choose.

I hesitated to write about this, because what if it sounds like whining, especially when I know that I did this to myself. It looks awfully masochistic, doesn't it? I knew this would be challenge upon challenge. Just because something is difficult doesn't mean it's not worth doing. Very often it's the opposite, as you well know.

On the First Spring Afternoon: Nothing of Substance

I smelled the earth as it woke up, walking outside on Saturday morning. The mother dove had returned to her nest, and was making repairs to her long-abandoned summer home in the corner of the porch ceiling. She sang as she did it, and I sang, too. But the hours passed, and the sun rose to its zenith and began its descent by the time I was free to leave the office again. Stretching from leaving that box, I realized afresh that I had arms and legs, and muscles to move them.

I was out of doors in minutes, dressed for a run, hoping for a sweat that was the result of sun pounding on my back, and not just the few miles I aimed for.

As I completed the third lap at my favorite park, I saw a man and his wife getting up off a bench. He had only one leg, and was supported by two arm crutches. I "felt instinctively," as Anne of Green Gables so often felt, that there was a conversation to be had here. So I stopped, and said, I kid you not, "No way! You only have one leg!" Somehow, in the moment, it was not as bad as it sounds to you right now. You will just have to trust me on this... You weren't there, okay?

He responded, "I wish I could do what you're doing!"

"What I am doing is far less impressive than what you're doing, sir! This was going to be my last lap, but now I'm going to run another lap, in your honor!" He chuckled, and off I went. It was the worst lap. I wanted to quit so badly after the third one, but I had made a promise to a man with only one leg. If I broke that promise... something inside me told me my legs would be in danger.

On I went, and got to thank them as they left the park. They were very supportive of a poor soul with no filter. I was sure that was the best the day had in it, and was content.

As I walked on, I found myself at the bottom of the walking path: surrounded on all sides by field, grasses, and swamp. It occurred to me that this moment was the furthest I'd been physically away from people in perhaps four months. A wet little lab-spaniel puppy came bounding up to me, banishing serious thoughts with her jumping and rolling. She was owned by four small Amish kids who were fishing in the stream, and she followed me for several yards, impervious to their calling. I felt the honor of her precious attentions. Eventually they had to catch up with me to get her back, despite my prodding her to return to them.

On the first true spring afternoon of the year, nothing was covered in snow, I had all my limbs, and a very cute dog had just made my pants muddy.

General Education: Bird Watching

From my vantage point in the dorm office, I can see only a sliver of the front porch. Entirely filling that sliver is a square, brick column supporting the porch roof. This column also supports a large bird's nest. So far this spring, two bird families have made their homes there, first building up the tenement, then laying eggs, and incubating them.

I find myself often observing these creatures who seem to subsist so much simpler than I. Most recently was the robin family. What a cure to watch mama bird fly off, leaving the kids in silence, to snuggle and shove each other until she returned, bringing back worms and berries in her expert beak. Her squeaky, squirmy babies arched their necks and got excited. She had to make many trips to scrounge food for her hungry troop. And never did I hear her complain. Every time she returned to the nest, I wanted to applaud, so cheerfully did she extend her prizes for her young to devour. They might have applauded, too, if they were older and wiser and had hands.

Good job, mother robin! Yesterday the birdies flew off: graduation! 

_____________________________________________________________________

I wish I could take a class whose only objectives were the following:

1. careful and reverent observation

2. honest prayer

3. quiet introspection
4. further observation

I believe bird watching (executed slowly and alone) should be a required part of a liberal arts education. Because in order for it to be effective for people like me (whoever we are), it must be forced. My view must be limited to only a sliver of the porch where the bird families are perfectly framed and perfectly close enough for observation.

For other ideas for a liberal arts education, John Updike's "Hoeing" comes to mind. Perhaps all these ideas could be rolled into one required class that I am supremely unqualified to teach. For a few days, we watch birds. Another few days, we hoe a field. Another day, we make mud puddles and play in them. Another day, we learn to beat water as if it were a drum. Another day, we bake pies. It would be called "Explorations in Bio-Purpose."

God's Signature: Happy Easter

"If it's beautiful and it multiplies, it must be God's work," said Pastor Josef this morning. It was a fitting comment, for the entire congregation seemed to be wriggling with new life. In a group of perhaps 320 people, babies under one and a half years constituted perhaps 20. Children under three years... oh my. That would be many more. And it would be far too awkward to try to count the children who are soon to be in our midst: pregnant women were all over the borrowed gym for today's service, taking part in the wriggling in their attempts to get comfortable.

I glanced over at J and M with their new baby. But I can never just glance. I looked. I stared. It's a wonder they haven't mentioned something about it, actually. J and M lost a baby over a year ago just before she would have been considered full term. We all mourned this loss deeply, just as we had all celebrated wholeheartedly when we first found out they were expecting.

"It's not fair," I thought repeatedly. I was just as quick to fire back at myself, "Of course it's not fair. A lot of things aren't fair. Are you gonna cry about it?"

Yes. I am going to cry about it, I hope.

But in not too much time, J and M decided they would begin to do foster care.

Just a few weeks after beginning the paperwork, a newborn girl (who looks as though she had been born of the two, seriously) was put into their arms by the foster care system. Hopefully this is a long-term thing. It sure is lovely to see them. And this morning, their little girl was in her baby carrier, fast asleep in a bright Easter dress and a little pink ribbon around her head. Of course, I gained all this by staring, like I do. And when she gave a start and awoke, M took the baby and rested her on her shoulder. Because she's her mom.

Beautiful. And despite their loss, their love is still multiplying.

So, what do I know of fair? I could easily get stuck in that place of "fair": telling God how things should work out.

Like Pastor was saying last week, some people believe that being a good person is good enough for God. But what do we even know about what is good? He expounded, saying, "God has changed my mind many times regarding the definition of good."

I like this new rule. if it's beautiful and it multiplies, it's of God.

February Forgotten

I just read a journal entry from camp last summer. I was expressing my frustration with a camper in my cabin. Mara had an appointment and had to leave camp for a few hours on Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday is always the hardest day, because it's the middle of the week, and we have the most activities that day, including camp-out. She had been homesick all week, crying at intervals, trying to participate occasionally, but she simply couldn't rise above it for more than an hour or two.

She left with her mother for the appointment on Wednesday afternoon. Just as I anticipated, in the evening her mother came back to pick up her things, announcing that Mara was finished for the week. Mara stayed in the car while her mother collected her sleeping bag and toothbrush and bathing suit. I was so frustrated with her mother: this is a classic case of enabling. She was giving her an out instead of telling her how strong she was, that she could certainly do this. Now the girl would have to wait until later to discover her own strength.

Let me bring this together: February of this year was my Wednesday. If I had had an out, I would have taken it: a different job, a vacation to Luxembourg. I found myself telling God that he needed to DO something. I felt so hopeless, purposeless, and TIRED. I wrote this poem then:

We forget

The end of February:
the slack damp girds our hearts;
we forget why we came.

We wait
with bated breath.
If your grace does not provide,
We shall have no recourse but to dive out, very far, for hope.

Today, we're undeniably into March. The sun is shining, and I placed a hyacinth in the open window of the office. There it is. February seems like a lifetime away. I know it is God who does this. He doesn't usually pick us up and take us home mid-week, despite our tears and threats. Perhaps merely "February" is a sissy example. Let me assure you, I've been through harder times... But it's not about the superlative nature of a trial. It's about Thursday, after camp-out, when you get a midday nap, and realize how lovely the woods are today, and you're ready to run hard during the evening games.

March, bring it.

Weekend Ends

Church last Sunday was especially wonderful. Jewel Showalter spoke and she tells the most engaging stories! BJ and I met up with Steve and Meg outside my house where Joella was in the midst of her home church luncheon. They welcomed our entrance to their party; but our mutual space and discreet goals complicated our desire to eat lunch and leave for Denver quickly. The four of us hurried off to Chestnut Hill Cafe and sat freezing outside in the sunlight of the blustery day. That place gets crowded of a Sunday afternoon!

We talked about city vs. country life. (Interesting, a similar topic occupied the conversation of many Arcadian writers and romantic poets.) Stephen believes firmly that Burnham, Pennsylvania, specifically the "Burnham Riviera," is the best town the world has to offer. So why, I wonder, does he seek a life in the navy? Possibly, home is most dear when we gaze at it from a distance.

We traveled to Denver, (close to Ephrata, non-locals) to attend our Uncle and Aunt's open house. Four birthdays (ages 20, 40, 50, 52...?), Abby home on leave, and a beautiful April are more than enough reason to celebrate with the Buckles family. Steve and Meg were fawned over for several reasons: our family is not accustomed to being in the same room with one another, they are having a baby (a BOY, in SEPTEMBER!), and they are just so good-looking.

Abby is radiant, despite days and nights spent training in a submarine. Nicole is a wonder-person--anyone will feel comfortable in her presence, what a gift! Mom came, dressed in magenta. Grandma and Grandpa came, full of new experience. Their hearts go so deep now, I wonder if I will ever know them. Uncle Ralph showed all the newcomers to the food table, happy enough to direct the friendly chaos. Aunt Lisa held a little baby most of the time, flitting about through hall, living rooms, and porch, the kitchen her constant center.

Camera flashes and goodbyes later, Mom and I returned to Lancaster. She settled into a "nap" while I drove to a frisbee game. Loss, 8-5. We had a Bob Evans breakfast in the morning, but my mind was already turning to my English Portfolios.

No time, no time to reflect. The garden winds that remade me, the family that I treasure, the breathless motion of springtime... little by little I remember to live. Two weeks until the end of junior year.

Weekend Continues

Last weekend was so packed that it merits three separate posts. Steve and Meg and I left Lancaster with our packed lunches and some non-specific directions. The day's goals: Longwood Gardens and the Brandywine River Museum. The day was windy, and clouds moved quickly in large mounds across the sun. We wanted to see everything. We started with the outer perimeter of brand new treehouses and the hourglass lake where catfish swarmed from under the bridge to gulp at the tulip petals I dropped. Those hideous beasts. If they were any bigger, I am sure I would have felt some fear.

We visited the DuPont house where a very large kitty was reclining on some cacti. Visitor after visitor stooped and petted her; the only indication that she was still alive was the rhythmic rise and fall of her massive belly.

We passed through the tulip beds: squares of the densest tulip patches humans can manage. A block of bright orange, a block of streaked yellow and red with fringes like leather jackets; a block of sedate and orderly small-headed purple; a block of magenta; light pink; large white-petalled towers over tiny violas.

At the far end of the tulips, a cat slept on a bench near a sign which told us of the important role the cats play in the garden: they catch rodents in exchange for (a seemingly endless supply of) food, shelter, and more loving tourists than Cinderella at Disney World.

We traveled into the trees near the belltower. A limby North African tree stood at the bottom of the hill near the Magnolias lining the road. Oh, that tree needed a friend. Sometimes fathers will build jungle gyms in their back yards so their kids can climb all around and see the world from a thousand different angles and turn upside down and look up into the sky. God built this one. I climbed high up into it. There were no signs. I am pretty sure I'm insured.

Our legs were getting tired. We could use a rest. We passed through a side door in the wall of apple trees at the edge of the vegetable gardens and found three chairs around a little garden table. I half expected wood elves to come serve us cider and honey wafers to restore our energies. After a brief respite, we turned the corner out of the alcove to find that we were right back in the action of the gardens.

We went into the conservatory where we experienced the perfume exhibit. Wow.

As we walked down from the bonsai room, there was Kelly Neibert. Just walking along alone. "Kelly!" I thought. But in reality, I just stared into her face as intensely as possible, so she would be sure to notice the stranger to her right. We talked precious little. She was busy. We were leaving.

We braved the long lines at the gift shop to buy Aida a mini gardening set, and an African violet for my aunt. The Brandywine River Museum was closing when we arrived. We went to a Thai Restaurant and loved it. We were tired. We rested in my living room where I watched and they made fun of the new Twilight movie, New Moon. Really, Twilight, guys? Yes, really. When we see the next one (and we will!), we plan on muting it and adding our own dialogue. You're invited to come see the magic.

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.

Spring Break Events: elongated laundry-list style

• Mom, Chelsea, my grandma, and I went to dinner to celebrate my grandpa's 77th birthday Friday night.
• Then I drove Mom and Chelsea home through a blinding rainstorm.
• Saturday and Sunday I visited with Stephen, Megan and Aida who came for the weekend! They are such a treat. It's true.
• I then crashed an ultimate frisbee game with people very much not my age. I miss playing regularly.
• And Kelly and Sladana and I had coffee and lovely conversation Sunday night.
• Mom and I returned to Lancaster Monday through the snowstorm.
• Joella, Rachel, Jess and I left Tuesday morning for North Carolina Beach State Park.
• Every night we froze and every day we slowly enjoyed our leisure. Notably, cypress trees are very beautiful, and Venus Fly Traps are not in season in early March. An RV camper walked by our campsite one morning and complimented our "heartiness" to sleep in a tent in such weather. Tuesday night was 22 degrees and our tent was of the summery, meshy version. Oh, Lord, thank you for the bathhouse! Rachel and I slept there that night.
• Today as I walked in the beautiful, 72 degree Pennsylvania weather, I met a lady named Valerie who was sitting and enjoying the weather, too. We talked for over an hour. She has lived an incredible life.
• Now, the rest of Spring break, I hope, will consist of finishing a paper, starting another, finishing a book, studying for Political Theory and working.