Books have a way of working me over. Pulling me in, then taking a firm grip and flinging me into the world beyond my own. Beyond my own in place, time, environment, and emotion. And yet when I leave the book on the nightstand or in my CD player with which I was listening to it, the emotion remains. Sometimes the emotions are fleeting dreams of a feeling I can’t have. Mr. Darcy is not yet insulting me while all the while loving me intensely. Usually, I run a line over and over in my head in order to fully grasp its meaning to the character and to me. But the emotions that capture me, bind me, and hold me hostage are those that well up from beyond the page. Something deep inside me bubbles with the intensity that a simple paragraph ignited. In my current state, I’m not sure of the other feelings I have experienced with such intensity, but I know for certain rage fills me now.
The rage is at a world that was, is and seems to be for a good long while. The rage is at me, who can’t stop it, hide from it, or care deeply enough for it. And the rage is at those who have never felt this same rage due to indifference. The story about a wife living on nothing but a bit of starch seasoned with dirt in Africa while her children’s bellies bloat and her husband rots in jail for being considered a traitor despite all loyalty to the true country leave me in deep anguish, despair and unbelief. This novel speaks more truth than I can bear.
I have moments when I see myself in Africa, living among the mango trees and tireless mothers and kids running around. Such a life seems perfectly normal to me, as much as living back in Wyoming would be. Somehow I dream that in being there, the realities that make it unique yet destitute would melt away under the tropical sun. Or at least they would blur and grow shady. Yet, in hearing this character’s anguish, I can’t help but think that too could be me. Just as the young woman of the pages, I am a white American that knows too much to be able to turn a blind eye and are therefore left to rage, long for what seems impossible, and in the end, try simply to survive. “And I do what I can. What I have to do, I can’t-wait.”
It’s been hours since I last opened the book but the sensation of rage still flutters in my brain, nerves and heart. Maybe that’s what I really need to watch out for- the ideas that stir up these emotions inside. But just like the harsh realities of the world, I can’t and shouldn’t hide from these feelings or the literature that arouses them. Instead, I need to be just as intentional about remembering that rage might not be caged, but it can be used purposely in conjunction of hope. In the end, I am an eternal optimist, though world circumstances sometimes jade me. So why I fume and bear teeth right now, I long to focus and calm the rage with hope. Hope of reconciliation. Hope of shalom. Hope of sharing the burden until we all bear it equally or not at all.
- These thoughts come after a long time reading Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. I’m near the end of the book, which saddens me. It was a captivating read and one that has allowed me to mingle and think and feel with several unique yet oddly familiar characters.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
I learned it in Mom's kitchen
Freshly canned peaches accompanied breakfast of cheerios and yogurt. A box of Jiffy Raspberry Muffins stared down at me while grocery shopping. I peeled and cut carrots as I remembered them prepared. And a small cup of vanilla pudding topped of my dinner.
I don’t know if the pending Mother’s Day is channeling my thoughts and actions, but as I reflect about my day I can’t help noticing how my default patterns came from my mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen. Granny June had a particular way of preparing her canned peaches that let me taste a bit of heaven with every bite. Perhaps it was just the right amount of sugar, but I think it was the surprise that even in February she still had another jar ready for us. “I just happen to have a jar of peaches,” she would chime to my delight and nothing goes better with Granny’s waffles than her peaches. Mom had a great tradition of making muffins to go with dinner. Our staple meal seemed to be steak and potatoes and muffins. The muffin part was ok, but the real goods came in preparing them. Licking the bowl and spatula was always my duty/treat and I was both willing and wanting. Somehow carrots had a perfect symmetrical shape in the tub of water at Granny’s house. Baby carrots did not interest her in the least and why would they when she could make crispy squares out of the long roots. I never quite understood why she placed them in a tub of water in the fridge but without fail, they were the best carrots and perfect munchies…when she was out of ice oatmeal raising cookies. The simple desserts came from my mother who new just when to whip up a box of strawberry Jell-O or vanilla pudding. We would prepare it in a Tupperware container, so once lidded, I could shake the pudding for ten minutes while she finished dinner. Whisks were a weird tool in my mind and didn’t provide half the fun or licking surface as the Tupperware.
These fond memories also conjure the lessons so subtly and maybe without any intention stuck in my brain over these twenty some years. I can’t say either mother was a gourmet; they got the job done and kept our tame pallets satisfied. But each had their special way of doing things and creating celebration out of the mundane of moments. If the meat ended up more well-done than my brother’s baseball mitt, my grandma wouldn’t think a thing of it. Pass the A1 or 57 Sauce, butter your potato and oh wait, SAVE ROOM FOR APPLE PIE. My mother would often bring out her Betty Crocker trophy she had earned back in home-ec or somewhere before becoming a cooking wife. If things were great, she would only have to point as if to say, “Betty doesn’t lie.” And if the food lacked a little or lotta something, the trophy would reassure us all that the mistake was a fluke. Pass the muffins.
I like celebrating with my mom, and though my grandma knows the real recipe of Angel’s Food cake now that she’s joined the crowd, I believe her enthusiasm for life lives on in me. I cut carrots the same and smile with each bite of peach. Every time I get the itch to travel, I know she would back me, stating that traveling is the best sort of education. While my mom continues to master La Cocina con Señora Betty in Ecuador, I’ll continue to use our common Girl Scout ideas to use what we have in creative and functional ways. And I’ll be sure to celebrate life’s small accomplishments with a cup of pudding or York peppermint patty, hoisting up a Betty Crocker trophy only to reaffirm what she and I already know.
Thanks Mom. Thanks Granny June.
I don’t know if the pending Mother’s Day is channeling my thoughts and actions, but as I reflect about my day I can’t help noticing how my default patterns came from my mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen. Granny June had a particular way of preparing her canned peaches that let me taste a bit of heaven with every bite. Perhaps it was just the right amount of sugar, but I think it was the surprise that even in February she still had another jar ready for us. “I just happen to have a jar of peaches,” she would chime to my delight and nothing goes better with Granny’s waffles than her peaches. Mom had a great tradition of making muffins to go with dinner. Our staple meal seemed to be steak and potatoes and muffins. The muffin part was ok, but the real goods came in preparing them. Licking the bowl and spatula was always my duty/treat and I was both willing and wanting. Somehow carrots had a perfect symmetrical shape in the tub of water at Granny’s house. Baby carrots did not interest her in the least and why would they when she could make crispy squares out of the long roots. I never quite understood why she placed them in a tub of water in the fridge but without fail, they were the best carrots and perfect munchies…when she was out of ice oatmeal raising cookies. The simple desserts came from my mother who new just when to whip up a box of strawberry Jell-O or vanilla pudding. We would prepare it in a Tupperware container, so once lidded, I could shake the pudding for ten minutes while she finished dinner. Whisks were a weird tool in my mind and didn’t provide half the fun or licking surface as the Tupperware.
These fond memories also conjure the lessons so subtly and maybe without any intention stuck in my brain over these twenty some years. I can’t say either mother was a gourmet; they got the job done and kept our tame pallets satisfied. But each had their special way of doing things and creating celebration out of the mundane of moments. If the meat ended up more well-done than my brother’s baseball mitt, my grandma wouldn’t think a thing of it. Pass the A1 or 57 Sauce, butter your potato and oh wait, SAVE ROOM FOR APPLE PIE. My mother would often bring out her Betty Crocker trophy she had earned back in home-ec or somewhere before becoming a cooking wife. If things were great, she would only have to point as if to say, “Betty doesn’t lie.” And if the food lacked a little or lotta something, the trophy would reassure us all that the mistake was a fluke. Pass the muffins.
I like celebrating with my mom, and though my grandma knows the real recipe of Angel’s Food cake now that she’s joined the crowd, I believe her enthusiasm for life lives on in me. I cut carrots the same and smile with each bite of peach. Every time I get the itch to travel, I know she would back me, stating that traveling is the best sort of education. While my mom continues to master La Cocina con Señora Betty in Ecuador, I’ll continue to use our common Girl Scout ideas to use what we have in creative and functional ways. And I’ll be sure to celebrate life’s small accomplishments with a cup of pudding or York peppermint patty, hoisting up a Betty Crocker trophy only to reaffirm what she and I already know.
Thanks Mom. Thanks Granny June.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Phone Books
In order to raise money for a recent project, my sister and I signed up to deliver phone books. Our delivery area would be similar to that of the postman and thus we saw the simple details of several neighborhoods. The three routes we committed to took quite some time, but it was good exercise, good money and good thinking time. For the last seven days I’ve learned a volume’s worth of lessons from phone books. While the volume might weigh 2.5 lbs like the books I delivered from house to house, business to business, these thoughts have been thoroughly marinated.
1. Teams and Tricky Stix are the key to success. The first day out, we collected a bunch of helpers to make the work lighter. Not only did we get the job done faster, but also it was so much more fun. We came up with team names like “What the Phone Book!” and Team 2- I apparently wasn’t very creative that day. We sang along to the Glee soundtrack and other hits. We fought the wind and rain with such perfect timing that when it rained, we ate lunch and when the sun shone, we ran down the streets with our bagged books in hand.
The Tricky Stix (cinnamon and sugar dessert breadsticks with frosting) were the perfect way to celebrate. And celebrate we must because our team did a good job, and a goal was met. We made money for those who need it. Sometimes I forget the importance of celebrating. I just want to finish a project and move to the next, but milestones, even small ones, deserve enough positive reflection and cheering so the next project can go all the better.
2. There’s no use avoiding the gate. I typically walked the block with 11 books in hand, getting have a block before returning to my car. It was a good system and fairly efficient. It did not come without its difficulties though. The worst part was leaving the car, weighed down, hands aching only to come upon a house with a gate. So many times I wanted to skip the house and come back. But each time I came to such an obstacle I realized I would have to face it at some point. I could either do it with lots of weight in my hands or less weight but more fatigue and less efficiency. It may seem like a simplistic decision and one that would have been fine either way, but I realized that my mind was not distracted by the deliveries I had made. If I were to leave a house, all I could think about was not forgetting it, figuring out the best way to get back to it without doubling my steps and over-analyzing the choice.
Such is the case in life. I come to obstacles, hard things and choices. If I commit to dealing with them right then and there, the struggle or pain is usually short lived and easily forgotten. However, if I wait, put off that which I’m dreading, it dominates my thoughts and emotion in a way that gives the obstacles power over me. The latter is not worth it. Just toughen up, go through the latched gate and move on.
3. Small chunks make big projects bearable. Had I delivered 1500 phone books in a day, I might never have gotten out of bed the next day. Instead, we broke up the route and set simpler expectations. Big jobs don’t have to be undertaken all at once even if timing and determination seems to dictate that. Small chunks encouraged me to finish strong and with quality so I win big in the end.
4. Working hard is not an option for everyone. At times during the process I thought: I need to make more friends who like to donate money to charity. Fundraisers are good fun but hard work. Yet, as I thought of the kids and parents to which our efforts support, I realized I was blessed in my choice. Most people in the world work to survive whether it’s by cultivating and selling products from the land, rebuilding infrastructure in the hot sun or simply carrying water from a well several miles away and cooking over a charcoal stone. My survival doesn’t rely on this type of work; instead I have a chance to be creative, to interact with people, to teach various skills and ideas. My labor consists of moving hurdles on the track. So while my brain sometimes feels “worked to the bone,” I can humbly say I’m thankful that that’s a choice I got to make.
1. Teams and Tricky Stix are the key to success. The first day out, we collected a bunch of helpers to make the work lighter. Not only did we get the job done faster, but also it was so much more fun. We came up with team names like “What the Phone Book!” and Team 2- I apparently wasn’t very creative that day. We sang along to the Glee soundtrack and other hits. We fought the wind and rain with such perfect timing that when it rained, we ate lunch and when the sun shone, we ran down the streets with our bagged books in hand.
The Tricky Stix (cinnamon and sugar dessert breadsticks with frosting) were the perfect way to celebrate. And celebrate we must because our team did a good job, and a goal was met. We made money for those who need it. Sometimes I forget the importance of celebrating. I just want to finish a project and move to the next, but milestones, even small ones, deserve enough positive reflection and cheering so the next project can go all the better.
2. There’s no use avoiding the gate. I typically walked the block with 11 books in hand, getting have a block before returning to my car. It was a good system and fairly efficient. It did not come without its difficulties though. The worst part was leaving the car, weighed down, hands aching only to come upon a house with a gate. So many times I wanted to skip the house and come back. But each time I came to such an obstacle I realized I would have to face it at some point. I could either do it with lots of weight in my hands or less weight but more fatigue and less efficiency. It may seem like a simplistic decision and one that would have been fine either way, but I realized that my mind was not distracted by the deliveries I had made. If I were to leave a house, all I could think about was not forgetting it, figuring out the best way to get back to it without doubling my steps and over-analyzing the choice.
Such is the case in life. I come to obstacles, hard things and choices. If I commit to dealing with them right then and there, the struggle or pain is usually short lived and easily forgotten. However, if I wait, put off that which I’m dreading, it dominates my thoughts and emotion in a way that gives the obstacles power over me. The latter is not worth it. Just toughen up, go through the latched gate and move on.
3. Small chunks make big projects bearable. Had I delivered 1500 phone books in a day, I might never have gotten out of bed the next day. Instead, we broke up the route and set simpler expectations. Big jobs don’t have to be undertaken all at once even if timing and determination seems to dictate that. Small chunks encouraged me to finish strong and with quality so I win big in the end.
4. Working hard is not an option for everyone. At times during the process I thought: I need to make more friends who like to donate money to charity. Fundraisers are good fun but hard work. Yet, as I thought of the kids and parents to which our efforts support, I realized I was blessed in my choice. Most people in the world work to survive whether it’s by cultivating and selling products from the land, rebuilding infrastructure in the hot sun or simply carrying water from a well several miles away and cooking over a charcoal stone. My survival doesn’t rely on this type of work; instead I have a chance to be creative, to interact with people, to teach various skills and ideas. My labor consists of moving hurdles on the track. So while my brain sometimes feels “worked to the bone,” I can humbly say I’m thankful that that’s a choice I got to make.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
laugh a lot
This morning I read an article by the BBC about laughter.
The point: laugh.
The reason: why not?
The benefits: improved physical, mental and emotional well being.
The place: Anywhere and everywhere. These people did it in Zimbabwe, a place where merriment and mirth have no right to abound.
The way: look at yourself in the mirror and laugh. (Or just imagine doing that for 10 minutes and you'll get a good chuckle...I did.)
Another way: Watch a funny movie, play with kids, make a fish face, say poop, tell a joke, pretend that your joke was funny.
The best way: Remember how much God has done for you and then keep your eys open to the silly things all around you that he's created.
Good health and happiness to all.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8659574.stm
The point: laugh.
The reason: why not?
The benefits: improved physical, mental and emotional well being.
The place: Anywhere and everywhere. These people did it in Zimbabwe, a place where merriment and mirth have no right to abound.
The way: look at yourself in the mirror and laugh. (Or just imagine doing that for 10 minutes and you'll get a good chuckle...I did.)
Another way: Watch a funny movie, play with kids, make a fish face, say poop, tell a joke, pretend that your joke was funny.
The best way: Remember how much God has done for you and then keep your eys open to the silly things all around you that he's created.
Good health and happiness to all.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8659574.stm
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