The uneasy hinge-creak of the motel room door drained my soul right out of my body.
Alone in this room at a motel in a remote corner of a most-economically depressed corner of the state, my isolation shocked me. Within six seconds I knew that no one I love even knew what room I was in, when they'd hear from me next, or whether I'd overslept; that the deadbolt I'd carefully locked was no longer in place; that before my shower I had noticed that no other cars from last night's parking lot were still out there; that I had *not* been an idiot to ponder the Bates family while taking the aforementioned shower; that I hoped I had enough social skill to somehow talk my way out of whatever was about to happen because I was alone, and the uneasy hinge-creak of the motel room door was due to someone slowly and deliberately opening the door.
"Hello?"
Unable to imagine accidental entry into my room, but knowing that no one else had a key, maybe a "hello" would alert them to my presence--maybe merely a thief? please?
Voicelessly, the door opened a bit more as fingers wrapped around its edge, creating a barrier to any potential slamming-shut I might've moved toward.
"Um, EXCUSE ME?" (It was more statement of my presence than question of theirs.)
Wiry and wide eyed, the thin woman's face peered nervously into the room, eyes not adjusted after being in the morning sunlight outdoors.
Clearly displeased with me, she snapped through missing teeth, "You're a CheckOut, aintcha?"
A split-second's deliberation served well; "They sent me over here to clean this here room, and you're not supposed to be in it. You're a Check-Out, aintcha?"
I still couldn't tell if this was real.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, you're not staying here another night. They sent me over. I'm s'posed to clean it up and all."
Neither of us moved.
"Look," I pointed out calmly, "There is a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the doorknob."
"Aw, people always puttin' those out and just leavin' 'em. I'm here to clean."
"Well, I'm still HERE," I pointed out (illustrating once again my children's contention that I love to state the obvious.) "I'm not supposed to check out for another hour."
Defensive, she listed every reason she could muster for being inside my room--my car wasn't directly outside the door; people put those signs out all the time; her job is cleaning; people don't usually stick around this place in the morning; she's supposed to clean the room now 'cause she starts at 9am; my brain about melted down taking it in.
She really DID seem to be there to clean, but DAMN: this place (a mid-range chain motel relatively near my daughter's college campus) had been a nightmare from square one--advertised minor amenties non-existent; damp towels in the towel racks; non-working television; a fridge whose decibel level rivaled that of a passing freight train; unhelpful staff; none of those useful little guides for getting help if there was something wrong with the room.......and now, dammit, an intruder had come creepishly into my room at 10:10am and was telling me that *I* am the jerk here.
Indignity heaped upon insult, frustration welled in my throat and hot tears flashed to my eyes. "Can you please just go? I'll sign out as soon as possible. Please leave me alone, please? Trust me, I *want* to get out of here: this has been the most awful motel experience I've ever had."
"Oh, I *know*!" she commiserated, reminiscent of Sweeney Todd's Mrs. Lovett. "I sure do know!"
She spun on her heel, leaving the door ajar on departure.
Taking a deep breath, I crossed the room, closed the door (deadbolt and all) and quickly gathered all my things. Laptop, purse, bags, book, cellphone, roomkey: check. Didn't wanna leave anything behind; didn't wanna have to come back to THIS crappy, stupid, miserable, dismaying place.
At the front desk, I would ask for a refund. What a stupid, wretched place; and what a rip off. How utterly unprofessional and unhospitable it ALL was--nothing, NOTHING had been handled well. I'm a pretty adaptable and patient girl; as long as you seem atleast sorta like you WANT to fix problems, I'm almost codependently willing to let you off the hook; but THIS place had done pretty much everything wrong and didn't even seem to KNOW it. The least they could do was not-charge me for this annoying, unfortunate experience.
The manager looked older than he could possibly have been, grizzled and worn out, clad in a white tank top while scooping food from a styrofoam bowl into his mouth and trying to sound cheerful as he asked if I were leaving now. Not "How was your stay," not "Is there anything else we can do for you," not "I hope you've enjoyed staying here, please fill out our survey," NOTHING.
Instead, just this: "You leavin' now?"
And it all came crashing down on me.
Yes, I was leaving now.
I had that option. I'd get into my car, and reimmerse in my life, my ridiculously good and rich and wonderful life. I'd text my college-student daughter and son from my own cell phone, letting them know that when they woke up they could meet me at the fair trade coffeeshop a couple of blocks from Sarah's campus apartment where they were sleeping in. I'd order an overpriced cup of coffee and crank up the laptop, tapping into the free wireless access to check in on all the messages, headlines, facebook updates and communication I'd missed overnight. I'd never have to stay at this crappy little motel again, and never see these incompetent people again and......well, that was the problem now.
I could leave. They could stay isolated and set apart; uneducated and unworthy of, say, dental insurance or education or even awareness of social graces like saying "I'm sorry!" when you've clearly intruded on another person's privacy. I could leave them behind, chained to unhappy jobs where they felt defensive; and I could take my money with them because, damnit, I was RIGHT.
Except that all of a sudden, I couldn't begin to live with taking even one more resource out of their lives.
The motel was awful, for sure. But the existence to which we've somehow damned this small cross-section of the local community is worse. I could leave. They could not.
Fifteen minutes earlier, my sense of isolation had frightened me. Suddenly, my sense of the isolation of these individuals shook me. Deeply.
Tryng to make ends meet, giving what they *do* have to provide a place for overprivileged (not a word I usually associate with myself, I suppose) people like me to stay, not knowing what to do when it doesn't work out well....and I was supposed to self-righteously ask for a REFUND?!?
"You leavin' now?"
Tears welled in my eyes again. "Yes. yes I am. Thank you, sir," I smiled.
He nodded, turning away to go back to his day.
Sunday, June 06, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Record Memories: Glass Houses
Coming from a family that thrived on records, I remember playing old 78 RPMs as well as the 33 1/3 and 45 RPMs (what diversity, right?)
I remember having no money of my own to buy albums--until I was finally old enough to be allowed to babysit. I scrupulously set aside half of each babysitting job's earnings because there was no way in the WORLD anyone else in my household would be spending money on that (ahem) scandalous (?!?) Billy Joel. (I'm not kidding.)
His Glass Houses album was HUGE that year, and I'd listened to my best friend's copy enough to know every syllable--but I'd have to purchase it on my own: THAT I knew.
Babysitting wages in southern Ashtabula County being what they were in that era, it took a long time to set aside enough. I checked and rechecked the price tag in the record-section of the Hills department store in Saybrook across the weeks, keeping the goal number of dollars and cents in mind.
At long last, one Friday night when I came home from babysitting, enough money filled the little treasure box I'd set aside in the top drawer of my dresser. My out of town grandparents were visiting--and when they heard that I was finally within striking distance of this little dream, they proposed a trip to Hills.
I could barely contain my excitement--and my pride in being able to make this purchase for myself.
I remember trying not to RUN to the record section when we got to the store--half enthralled, half terrified that they would not have the album anymore, or that it would be simply sold out. But there it was: and soon, it would be mine.
When the rest of the crew reassembled at the check out line, Grammy and Gramps stood with me. (I find myself grinning NOW, thinking of how happy I was in that moment.)
When the cashier told me my total, Gramps reached past me to hand her cash for the album.
"NOW you have some money to use for something else you'd like," Grammy explained.
"We are REALLY PROUD of you for working so hard and waiting so long for something you wanted so much," Gramps added.
They even sat with enthralled me, listening to the entire album when we got back to the house.
I learned an awful lot about the practice of loving presence because of that album. Lucky kid, right?
I remember having no money of my own to buy albums--until I was finally old enough to be allowed to babysit. I scrupulously set aside half of each babysitting job's earnings because there was no way in the WORLD anyone else in my household would be spending money on that (ahem) scandalous (?!?) Billy Joel. (I'm not kidding.)
His Glass Houses album was HUGE that year, and I'd listened to my best friend's copy enough to know every syllable--but I'd have to purchase it on my own: THAT I knew.
Babysitting wages in southern Ashtabula County being what they were in that era, it took a long time to set aside enough. I checked and rechecked the price tag in the record-section of the Hills department store in Saybrook across the weeks, keeping the goal number of dollars and cents in mind.
At long last, one Friday night when I came home from babysitting, enough money filled the little treasure box I'd set aside in the top drawer of my dresser. My out of town grandparents were visiting--and when they heard that I was finally within striking distance of this little dream, they proposed a trip to Hills.
I could barely contain my excitement--and my pride in being able to make this purchase for myself.
I remember trying not to RUN to the record section when we got to the store--half enthralled, half terrified that they would not have the album anymore, or that it would be simply sold out. But there it was: and soon, it would be mine.
When the rest of the crew reassembled at the check out line, Grammy and Gramps stood with me. (I find myself grinning NOW, thinking of how happy I was in that moment.)
When the cashier told me my total, Gramps reached past me to hand her cash for the album.
"NOW you have some money to use for something else you'd like," Grammy explained.
"We are REALLY PROUD of you for working so hard and waiting so long for something you wanted so much," Gramps added.
They even sat with enthralled me, listening to the entire album when we got back to the house.
I learned an awful lot about the practice of loving presence because of that album. Lucky kid, right?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Lilacs Remembered
I woke this morning remembering waking to the smell of lilacs ablossom outside the window, and wished for that to be true today as well.
A lilac bush grew directly outside the windows of the many-generationed farmhouse where my grandparents lived during my earliest childhood and which--after our whole family traded houses when i was in seventh grade--became my home. As far as I have ever known, that resilient lilac dug and in insistently graced us with her intense will to fragrance our lives for at least four generations of our lives. She blossoms year after year, having endured harsh winters and the sunless side of the house as lives full of joy, challenge, hope, frustration, fear, richness, birth, loss, struggle, delight and death come and go inside the walls; still, she faithfully shows up spring after spring with her green dress and vibrant fragrance.
Waking to the smell of lilacs carries a sentimental sense of rootedness and hopefulness for me; somehow on those days, I can more readily awaken knowing who I am in the universe I inhabit, remembering who I was, where my roots are, where I've been and who I've grown to be.
This morning when I looked out my bedroom window I noticed that the lilac bush across the street is thinking about springing back to life, and remembered....
I should probably make a trip back to the farm soon to visit AND to snatch a few branches from that bush. How cool would it be to have the daughter of that very lilac transplanted here in my yard in the city?
A lilac bush grew directly outside the windows of the many-generationed farmhouse where my grandparents lived during my earliest childhood and which--after our whole family traded houses when i was in seventh grade--became my home. As far as I have ever known, that resilient lilac dug and in insistently graced us with her intense will to fragrance our lives for at least four generations of our lives. She blossoms year after year, having endured harsh winters and the sunless side of the house as lives full of joy, challenge, hope, frustration, fear, richness, birth, loss, struggle, delight and death come and go inside the walls; still, she faithfully shows up spring after spring with her green dress and vibrant fragrance.
Waking to the smell of lilacs carries a sentimental sense of rootedness and hopefulness for me; somehow on those days, I can more readily awaken knowing who I am in the universe I inhabit, remembering who I was, where my roots are, where I've been and who I've grown to be.
This morning when I looked out my bedroom window I noticed that the lilac bush across the street is thinking about springing back to life, and remembered....
I should probably make a trip back to the farm soon to visit AND to snatch a few branches from that bush. How cool would it be to have the daughter of that very lilac transplanted here in my yard in the city?
Friday, April 02, 2010
Weep: Station Eight
The eighth station: The women of Jerusalem weep for Jesus
A reading from the gospel of Matthew
Jerusalem, Jerusalem! You murder the prophets and stone those sent to you by God. How often would I have gathered your children, yet you refused! Now you will be left with an empty temple. I tell you that you will no longer see me until you say, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of God.”
Let us be still and weep in our own hearts.
Let us weep for all those lost in our wars and our military maneuvers.
Let us weep for those who are victims of political manipulation.
Let us weep for those who suffer because we do not stand up against racism and prejudice in our own families, schools, workplaces, country and world.
Let us weep for those who cannot hear the voices of the prophets among us,
Let us weep for those we label unjustly
Let us weep for those we thoughtlessly ignore.
Let us weep for those who continue to suffer every time we are too busy to care who is affected by our choices.
Let us weep for those who suffer every time we react from fear instead of responding with love.
A reading from the gospel of Matthew
Jerusalem, Jerusalem! You murder the prophets and stone those sent to you by God. How often would I have gathered your children, yet you refused! Now you will be left with an empty temple. I tell you that you will no longer see me until you say, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of God.”
Let us be still and weep in our own hearts.
Let us weep for all those lost in our wars and our military maneuvers.
Let us weep for those who are victims of political manipulation.
Let us weep for those who suffer because we do not stand up against racism and prejudice in our own families, schools, workplaces, country and world.
Let us weep for those who cannot hear the voices of the prophets among us,
Let us weep for those we label unjustly
Let us weep for those we thoughtlessly ignore.
Let us weep for those who continue to suffer every time we are too busy to care who is affected by our choices.
Let us weep for those who suffer every time we react from fear instead of responding with love.
Carrying: The Second Station
A reading from the gospel of Mark.
Jesus called to the people and said, “If you want to come after me, deny yourself, take up your cross and follow me. For if you choose to save your life, you will lose it, and if you lose your life for my sake and the sake of the gospel, you will save it.”
We are called to love one another as Jesus loved us.
“Take up the cross and follow me,” he said.
We are called to take up the burdens of God’s people, to carry the cross as Christ did.
The response will be “Help us to love in the image of Christ.”
For the widows and widowers who bear burdens of loneliness and grief, we pray….
For justice systems that act out of self-interest, vengeance and self-righteousness to be renewed in the image of compassion and wholeness, we pray….
For single parents bearing sole responsibility for raising and supporting their children, we pray….
For those burdened with mental illness and physical illness, we pray…..
For the victims of sexual abuse struggling to heal and recover, we pray….
For the people of war torn nations, victims of terrorism, those who live with the burdens of fear, poverty and powerlessness, we pray….
For those who are weighed down by prejudice, poverty and systematic injustices, we pray….
For those whose lives are limited by the materialism and greed of corporate profiteering, we pray….
For those who are alone, lost, left out or excluded, who most need the healing power of God, we pray
We thank you, Jesus, for bearing our burdens and never leaving us alone with a weight too heavy to carry. Open our hearts and our hands that we may respond to your call. Help us to be your hands, your feet and your voice in the world. Give us the strength to love in your image. Amen.
Jesus called to the people and said, “If you want to come after me, deny yourself, take up your cross and follow me. For if you choose to save your life, you will lose it, and if you lose your life for my sake and the sake of the gospel, you will save it.”
We are called to love one another as Jesus loved us.
“Take up the cross and follow me,” he said.
We are called to take up the burdens of God’s people, to carry the cross as Christ did.
The response will be “Help us to love in the image of Christ.”
For the widows and widowers who bear burdens of loneliness and grief, we pray….
For justice systems that act out of self-interest, vengeance and self-righteousness to be renewed in the image of compassion and wholeness, we pray….
For single parents bearing sole responsibility for raising and supporting their children, we pray….
For those burdened with mental illness and physical illness, we pray…..
For the victims of sexual abuse struggling to heal and recover, we pray….
For the people of war torn nations, victims of terrorism, those who live with the burdens of fear, poverty and powerlessness, we pray….
For those who are weighed down by prejudice, poverty and systematic injustices, we pray….
For those whose lives are limited by the materialism and greed of corporate profiteering, we pray….
For those who are alone, lost, left out or excluded, who most need the healing power of God, we pray
We thank you, Jesus, for bearing our burdens and never leaving us alone with a weight too heavy to carry. Open our hearts and our hands that we may respond to your call. Help us to be your hands, your feet and your voice in the world. Give us the strength to love in your image. Amen.
Condemnation: The First Station
The first station: Jesus is condemned to death.
A reading from the gospel of Luke.
One of the criminals hanging with Jesus insulted him: “So you are the Messiah? Save yourself and us as well!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Have you no fear of God? You received the same sentence as he did. We deserve the punishment; this is payment for what we have done. But this man has done no evil.” Turning to Jesus, he said, “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus replied, “Truly, you will be with me today in paradise.”
Who in our world stands condemned unjustly?
Who do we put to death in a thousand ways?
Whose deaths do we allow to pass unnoticed? Refugees, perhaps? Faceless victims of violence and war?
Those in whom there is no guilt still die today.
They are the abused children, the battered women.
They are the children in countries crushed by war.
They are the hidden elderly, the ignored lonely.
They are the poor who are deprived of basic human rights.
They are the executed unborn.
They are the stereotyped mentally ill, the socially condemned.
They are the AIDS victims sentenced to death.
They are the prisoners of war, mocked and tortured.
The innocent are still condemned to death.
We are called to act with justice.
We are called to love tenderly
We are called to walk this way of the cross, to walk humbly with our God.
A reading from the gospel of Luke.
One of the criminals hanging with Jesus insulted him: “So you are the Messiah? Save yourself and us as well!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Have you no fear of God? You received the same sentence as he did. We deserve the punishment; this is payment for what we have done. But this man has done no evil.” Turning to Jesus, he said, “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus replied, “Truly, you will be with me today in paradise.”
Who in our world stands condemned unjustly?
Who do we put to death in a thousand ways?
Whose deaths do we allow to pass unnoticed? Refugees, perhaps? Faceless victims of violence and war?
Those in whom there is no guilt still die today.
They are the abused children, the battered women.
They are the children in countries crushed by war.
They are the hidden elderly, the ignored lonely.
They are the poor who are deprived of basic human rights.
They are the executed unborn.
They are the stereotyped mentally ill, the socially condemned.
They are the AIDS victims sentenced to death.
They are the prisoners of war, mocked and tortured.
The innocent are still condemned to death.
We are called to act with justice.
We are called to love tenderly
We are called to walk this way of the cross, to walk humbly with our God.
TGIF Stations: Not Just A Remembrance
A few years back, I had the immense privilege of being the fulltime youth minister at the Community of St Mary Magdalene. One year before we attended a traditional Stations of the Cross we started to talk about what relevance that traditional reflection might have in the world that WE inhabit.
I, for the record, have not ever been a particular FAN of this particular devotion.
So, a bunch of us gathered to reflect and converse, sharing resources and ideas from others and mixing it all into a vibrant piece that combined prayer, performance art, visual art and community engagement. (This allowed me to not be exclusively responsible for putting some "lesson" together for something I wasn't all that sure I really LIKED all that much.)
In the next few posts, I'm going to share some of our script (with the note that some of the words are definitely from other sources, and I do not have a bibliography around. D'oh.).
What I'm aware of right now:
The events recalled in the Stations of the Cross are not merely history, nor merely faith.
They go on today, too.
They are not something merely to remember, but a prophetic reminder of who we are called to be.
I, for the record, have not ever been a particular FAN of this particular devotion.
So, a bunch of us gathered to reflect and converse, sharing resources and ideas from others and mixing it all into a vibrant piece that combined prayer, performance art, visual art and community engagement. (This allowed me to not be exclusively responsible for putting some "lesson" together for something I wasn't all that sure I really LIKED all that much.)
In the next few posts, I'm going to share some of our script (with the note that some of the words are definitely from other sources, and I do not have a bibliography around. D'oh.).
What I'm aware of right now:
The events recalled in the Stations of the Cross are not merely history, nor merely faith.
They go on today, too.
They are not something merely to remember, but a prophetic reminder of who we are called to be.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
A few years ago I wrote an introduction to the Triduum for children and families. Here's an excerpt:
***
HOLY THURSDAY.
Lent is over.
It ends today, late in the afternoon.
Triduum has begun.
Since we only come to church for a little while on each of the THREE DAYS, it seems like three separate things—but it isn’t. Triduum is one, big, long event. It is part of us wherever we are during those days. Holy Thursday starts Triduum.
Tonight we remember the Last Supper.
Jesus and his friends shared this night around a table.
In the story we hear tonight, Jesus washes his friends’ feet.
He teaches them to be humble.
He teaches them to serve other people:
to find the people
who are
lonely
hungry
sad
outcast
frightened
disenfranchised
homeless
poor
weird
unloved
voiceless
sick
different
hurting,
rejected
grubby.
And he teaches them
to take those people
and hold them in their hearts—
to make it so that
they
never
again
will be lonely,
hungry,
sad,
outcast
frightened,
disenfranchised,
homeless,
poor,
weird,
unloved,
voiceless,
sick,
differenct,
hurting,
rejected
and
grubby.
To show them that they are good and lovable.
To show them how God feels about them.
To see in them the face of God.
We can be like Jesus and his friends.
We can learn the same things Jesus taught his friends when he washed their feet.
***
Who has washed my feet?
Who has noticed when I was in need?
Who has helped me when I needed help?
Who has made me feel better when I was lonely, hungry, sad, outcast, frightened, disenfranchised, homeless, poor, weird, unloved, voiceless, sick, different, hurting, rejected, grubby?
Whose feet have I washed?
Who have I helped in some way?
Whose needs are more important to me than my own?
For whom do I make personal sacrifices?
Whose silenced voice do I try to speak out for?
When do I get involved and help make a difference in others’ lives?
Who else can I help?
Who in our world needs love and attention?
To whom can I listen better?
Whose loneliness can I overcome?
Whose poverty can we help change?
What prejudices can I help end?
What injustices can we help to make right to end someone’s suffering?
What can we do to make a difference and wash the feet of our world?
***
HOLY THURSDAY.
Lent is over.
It ends today, late in the afternoon.
Triduum has begun.
Since we only come to church for a little while on each of the THREE DAYS, it seems like three separate things—but it isn’t. Triduum is one, big, long event. It is part of us wherever we are during those days. Holy Thursday starts Triduum.
Tonight we remember the Last Supper.
Jesus and his friends shared this night around a table.
In the story we hear tonight, Jesus washes his friends’ feet.
He teaches them to be humble.
He teaches them to serve other people:
to find the people
who are
lonely
hungry
sad
outcast
frightened
disenfranchised
homeless
poor
weird
unloved
voiceless
sick
different
hurting,
rejected
grubby.
And he teaches them
to take those people
and hold them in their hearts—
to make it so that
they
never
again
will be lonely,
hungry,
sad,
outcast
frightened,
disenfranchised,
homeless,
poor,
weird,
unloved,
voiceless,
sick,
differenct,
hurting,
rejected
and
grubby.
To show them that they are good and lovable.
To show them how God feels about them.
To see in them the face of God.
We can be like Jesus and his friends.
We can learn the same things Jesus taught his friends when he washed their feet.
***
Who has washed my feet?
Who has noticed when I was in need?
Who has helped me when I needed help?
Who has made me feel better when I was lonely, hungry, sad, outcast, frightened, disenfranchised, homeless, poor, weird, unloved, voiceless, sick, different, hurting, rejected, grubby?
Whose feet have I washed?
Who have I helped in some way?
Whose needs are more important to me than my own?
For whom do I make personal sacrifices?
Whose silenced voice do I try to speak out for?
When do I get involved and help make a difference in others’ lives?
Who else can I help?
Who in our world needs love and attention?
To whom can I listen better?
Whose loneliness can I overcome?
Whose poverty can we help change?
What prejudices can I help end?
What injustices can we help to make right to end someone’s suffering?
What can we do to make a difference and wash the feet of our world?
Saturday, January 30, 2010
A Brainful of Books
I think it's more accurate to say that I'm trying to be more intentional about some specific aspect of my life this year than that I've made new year's resolutions, by the way.
That said, I've been a somewhat obsessive reader since.....well, since before I actually learned how to read. (I'll tell that story in another moment.) The past year found me reading fewer actual books than usual--partly due to crappy eye insurance and a need for good glasses, partly due to busyness in a thousand other parts of life and distractions ranging from the necessary to the merely distracting.
I've been increasingly intentional about picking up books and reading them lately, though, and from time to time I'll toss some assorted book-related thoughts out here. In the past eight weeks a few particular titles have wrestled and floated and danced through my brain:
*Last Night In Twisted River by John Irving. (Random House, New York; 2009)
*The Road by Cormac McCarthy. (Alfred A. Knopf, New York; 2006)
*Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris (Little, Brown and Co., Boston; 1997)
(I've completed these ones.)
I'm currently nearly racing through Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell (Little, Brown and Co, New York; 2008)
and taking in a few pages at a time of Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg (Shambala Books, 1986).
There are a few other semirandom things I'm kinda half-reading at the moment, but they don't particularly count (theyre mostly things I'm just going back to for their familiarity or to find a few particular insights, quotes or information that I want or need for ideas or projects I'm playing with.)
I'd like to come back and share some thoughts about some of these at some point, but, well, you know--two roads diverged and all that. We'll see.....
That said, I've been a somewhat obsessive reader since.....well, since before I actually learned how to read. (I'll tell that story in another moment.) The past year found me reading fewer actual books than usual--partly due to crappy eye insurance and a need for good glasses, partly due to busyness in a thousand other parts of life and distractions ranging from the necessary to the merely distracting.
I've been increasingly intentional about picking up books and reading them lately, though, and from time to time I'll toss some assorted book-related thoughts out here. In the past eight weeks a few particular titles have wrestled and floated and danced through my brain:
*Last Night In Twisted River by John Irving. (Random House, New York; 2009)
*The Road by Cormac McCarthy. (Alfred A. Knopf, New York; 2006)
*Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris (Little, Brown and Co., Boston; 1997)
(I've completed these ones.)
I'm currently nearly racing through Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell (Little, Brown and Co, New York; 2008)
and taking in a few pages at a time of Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg (Shambala Books, 1986).
There are a few other semirandom things I'm kinda half-reading at the moment, but they don't particularly count (theyre mostly things I'm just going back to for their familiarity or to find a few particular insights, quotes or information that I want or need for ideas or projects I'm playing with.)
I'd like to come back and share some thoughts about some of these at some point, but, well, you know--two roads diverged and all that. We'll see.....
Saturday, January 23, 2010
now we begin....again.
My dad sounded at least half incredulous (and simultaneously forceful, as if anyone who didn't agree could be convinced simply by his speaking more declaratively) on the topic of the passage of time: "'t goes faster every year. I don't know how it happens, but the years just start blurring together!"
Falling on the ears of a child weeping at the end of the magical Christmas season, too-aware of the distance from Epiphany to Advent, his words held no comfort; rather, they just illustrated how little he understood my grief at the passing of this wondrous time. Same thing when I yearned for summer vacation to begin--or cried at the end of the Ashtabula County Fair week--or waved through tears to my grandparents as we drove away from their home after a visit; through the seasons of life, he kept telling me that time moved in a blur and I kept wishing he'd understand that the NEXT Christmas, the next fair, the next visit would not be the SAME, that we would NEVER be "here" again, and that even so, time moved so slowly that the wait for the next Christmas/fair/visit/etc seemed intolerably ponderous.
The significance of the passage of time--and a thousand tangential themes--haunts, challenges, amuses and preoccupies me; always has, I think.
Imagine, then, my amusement as this new year, this new decade begins:
I sign into blogger.com, intent on upholding a pseudoquasiResolution to write more, and to do at least some of that writing in a blog. I click through the paces to set up a new blog, but the name I choose is taken already (Grrrr: I mean, I'm pretty sure that *I* have some sort of cosmic right to the name RuahKampf.)
Didn't take too long to figure it out: the owner of that blog reserved it nearly five years ago. There's just the one set-up post. She's 2005 ME. Yup, it's my blog. One post long--from half a decade ago.
How could I have set up a blog five years ago and then just never really come back to it?
Who was I on that day--the day before my birthday, no less?
What did Paula.2005 mean to say?
And why did she take five years to find her way back here?
How fast do the days
and weeks
and months
and years
.....oh, hell: and decades(!)
pass?
And can I capture at least some wee glimpses of the breath, the spirit, the struggle, the challenge, the LIFE in a day
week
month
year
decade
.....one entry at a time?
That's what I'm about here, I suppose.
And that 's what the name is about: ruah is the Hebrew word for both breath and spirit; kampf, the German for struggle, fight, challenge. For years I've gone on about the intensity and wonder, the profoundity and delight of entering into the life sustained by breath and spirit, the struggle to keep breathing and keep living spiritedly in a challenging universe, the beauty and worthiness of conspiring toward the good.
In daylights, in midnights, in sunsets, in cups of coffee and words of entries--at least some of the fleeting, astonishing, amazing, challenging, spirited moments (if not seasons) of life will show up here along the way.
'Cause Dad is right: 't goes faster every year.
And I don't wanna miss a thing.
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