It’s hard to deny the power of a full moon. I’m not superstitious or even a fan of Twilight, but the last couple days have been weird. The moon was only half the battle, but it was also the most helpful and guiding presence throughout.
Monday night I had the pleasure of spending the evening with my sister, but the worst part is leaving. Not just because at 11pm I’m so cozy and ready for bed on the couch but more especially because I have a 30-minute drive ahead of me. I convinced myself that a sleepover wasn’t the best thing to do while I’m suppose to be house sitting on the other side of town so off I drove, in a ¾ awake stupor. My commute takes me through wheat and hay fields, gorgeous in the day and seemingly endless at night. As I drove my other senses took over. The smells of the hay and the embracing light and tide-forcing power of the moon brought me safely to my door.
As I drove home I began to think of Mary and Joseph’s journey to Bethlehem. I imagined them walking by light of the moon or the really bright star of God- I can’t remember if that was present on their walk or just after Jesus was born. Regardless, with a donkey and moonlight, they probably experienced a similar journey as I did. They knew they would find a stopping place, they new they were on the right road, but the journey seemed endless especially for Mary. I suspect when you’re pregnant all senses are heightened and so the smells, sounds, and feelings of that trek to Bethlehem would have been unforgettable even if she wasn’t in the prime of health, mentally or physically.
I had planned to write about this trip home once I walked in the door, but the bed called me. And the following 48 hours kept me in a ¾ awaken stupor. Things got done, I think, and great ideas were shared at work and with friends, I hope. But my senses were focused on something else completely. Maybe my body/mind/spirit needed healing from working out, or sleeping poorly, or reading a convicting book, or emotionally investing in people. My senses guided me, though, along with the moon that shone with intensity every night.
I’m not sure what to make of it all. I’m sure Mary had the same notion at times. “Um, Lord, are you sure about this? I’m on autopilot now just waiting for you to do another miracle. I’ll follow your light and try not to let the donkey’s breath make me nauseous.” So I live in the miracle of this day that seems so much more alive, clear and bright. I slept well and look forward to using the moon as a companion walking stick rather than a compulsory crutch.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
no broken bones
When I was 11 years old remember distinctly wishing to break a leg. To break it for one day. I wanted to experience the pain, the crutches, the extra “get better soon” popsicles and ice cream and the test of maneuvering through school. As I had only had stitches once and no other major hospital visits, I desired the extreme. The extreme of senses and pain, emotion, challenge and in all honesty, attention. Now as a wise old woman (ha!) I realize everyday how lucky I am to be whole, at least with two unbroken legs.
Yet, as a wise old woman I still have childish fancies. I seek extremes in different areas of life. And like that of a broken leg, the extremes are those I’ve seen or heard about happening to other people. When I went to Africa, I so appreciated visiting the village and kind of wanted to stay there overnight. Never before had I been in a place or position of such humility and poverty. When my friend worked as a “sound gal” for a Tony Award winning Broadway musical, I wanted to experience the adrenaline rush of tech rehearsal, post show excitement and drinks, and the feeling of pure genius. And when my closest friends and family are sick or sad in a way that I can’t do anything but stand by, I instead want to feel the extremes of their pain and sorrow, if nothing else but to empathize with experiential clarity.
This thought process is probably the most unproductive wishing though, because not only would my life be completely altered by these circumstances, and not for just one day, but my role as I am meant to play (and am playing) would be lost. What good is a crippled friend to another crippled friend if they need to get somewhere? What good is another tech person when the show needs an amazed audience member? What good is extra heartache in comparison to the dry and waiting shoulder?
This life has offered me a great many opportunities to live out extremes of emotion, senses, excitement, desire, fear, and hope. I’m utterly grateful for these experiences and the ability to embrace them in their proper time. So as the weeks move beyond days of celebrations, heartache, suspension, limbo and the extremes that others knew, I’m praying that I can content myself with my wholeness as is. May I better grasp how that wholeness is a gift to connect me to others instead of the sign of empty empathy.
Yet, as a wise old woman I still have childish fancies. I seek extremes in different areas of life. And like that of a broken leg, the extremes are those I’ve seen or heard about happening to other people. When I went to Africa, I so appreciated visiting the village and kind of wanted to stay there overnight. Never before had I been in a place or position of such humility and poverty. When my friend worked as a “sound gal” for a Tony Award winning Broadway musical, I wanted to experience the adrenaline rush of tech rehearsal, post show excitement and drinks, and the feeling of pure genius. And when my closest friends and family are sick or sad in a way that I can’t do anything but stand by, I instead want to feel the extremes of their pain and sorrow, if nothing else but to empathize with experiential clarity.
This thought process is probably the most unproductive wishing though, because not only would my life be completely altered by these circumstances, and not for just one day, but my role as I am meant to play (and am playing) would be lost. What good is a crippled friend to another crippled friend if they need to get somewhere? What good is another tech person when the show needs an amazed audience member? What good is extra heartache in comparison to the dry and waiting shoulder?
This life has offered me a great many opportunities to live out extremes of emotion, senses, excitement, desire, fear, and hope. I’m utterly grateful for these experiences and the ability to embrace them in their proper time. So as the weeks move beyond days of celebrations, heartache, suspension, limbo and the extremes that others knew, I’m praying that I can content myself with my wholeness as is. May I better grasp how that wholeness is a gift to connect me to others instead of the sign of empty empathy.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
child muse
Five-year old approval goes a long way especially when it comes to stories. Who better than to nix an idea or give a short though all the same standing ovation for some literary genius? While I wish I could claim either of those titles, a literary or a genius, I do have some clever stories every once in awhile. And this afternoon proved to be a magical moment.
I’m an artist that needs a muse, a muse with a suggestion, however small or off the wall. Were you ever asked to draw something and sit stumped at what profound picture might grace the single page with which you have to create a masterpiece? Somehow a flower always comes to mind. (Tangent: If ever I tried to fall asleep as a kid, the image of the Wicked Witch of the West, rainbows and elephants came to my head. Once the witch flew over these latter pieces of my imagination, I would be out. So flowers seem somehow docile and obvious.) When it comes to stories, a similar block comes to my head. That was until I read a book that suggested inserting 2 things: human, mineral or otherwise. Pink and teacups or grass and telescope can start a myriad of great stories. (This suggestion to get suggestions is key to improv if ever you have to MC without a script…)
This afternoon my listener offered princess and dragon. While almost too easy I decided to put the dragon in the closet and take the princess to 3rd grade. Only my hero, Oliver, could make all things right, all the while sporting green converse sneakers.
I finished not to applause but to a smile. I guess that was a good enough prize; I wasn’t interrupted or booed off the stage, and the audience participated in key ways, even naming the auxiliary characters. What this five-year old doesn’t know is that she gave me a boost, actually a running start at one of my bucket list items: write a children’s book.
Now I just have to find an enamoring title and equally clever way to present the child’s tale to adults. Talk about a tough crowd! Maybe I should hand out beanies with spinners when I present my idea. Weee…
I’m an artist that needs a muse, a muse with a suggestion, however small or off the wall. Were you ever asked to draw something and sit stumped at what profound picture might grace the single page with which you have to create a masterpiece? Somehow a flower always comes to mind. (Tangent: If ever I tried to fall asleep as a kid, the image of the Wicked Witch of the West, rainbows and elephants came to my head. Once the witch flew over these latter pieces of my imagination, I would be out. So flowers seem somehow docile and obvious.) When it comes to stories, a similar block comes to my head. That was until I read a book that suggested inserting 2 things: human, mineral or otherwise. Pink and teacups or grass and telescope can start a myriad of great stories. (This suggestion to get suggestions is key to improv if ever you have to MC without a script…)
This afternoon my listener offered princess and dragon. While almost too easy I decided to put the dragon in the closet and take the princess to 3rd grade. Only my hero, Oliver, could make all things right, all the while sporting green converse sneakers.
I finished not to applause but to a smile. I guess that was a good enough prize; I wasn’t interrupted or booed off the stage, and the audience participated in key ways, even naming the auxiliary characters. What this five-year old doesn’t know is that she gave me a boost, actually a running start at one of my bucket list items: write a children’s book.
Now I just have to find an enamoring title and equally clever way to present the child’s tale to adults. Talk about a tough crowd! Maybe I should hand out beanies with spinners when I present my idea. Weee…
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
TRAINing the imagination
When did you last watch a train go by and wonder its contents? What did you picture inside each car? Who might be conducting such a long, winding, gargantuan snake of a vehicle down thin strips of metal?
These questions only came to me through a friend’s eyes that were seeing an American train up close and personal for the first time. Growing up in an area where trains passed through on a daily basis, the fascination of a train had escaped me many years ago. Plus I outgrew the Boxcar Children book series a while back. But my new Malawian friend peppered me with questions. And we came up with some great possibilities to the former questions.
The large boxcars concerned my friend. Really anything could be in there, she thought. And who’s to say why not? I told her all sorts of material such as coal (as energy products) and even animals travel in such cars. While riding her bike she so expertly started to jostle about as if the vibrations of the train were affecting her. In a shaky voice she said, “Can you imagine a poor cow on such a ride. Poor thing. Cows in Africa are never treated this way.” To that I could only reply with a chuckle and comeback question. “Do you mean to tell me your cows travel on couches, getting their hooves painted and drinking chai tea?” She laughed, “Of course.”
Many of the cars on the train were black barrels. When asked, I could only guess what was in them- natural gas, propane, or some other liquid/gaseous “energy” products. I’ve since learned that tanker cars (the proper name for the black barrels) coming through Spokane hold just such substances and are even proposed as training tools for haz. mat. specialists. Eek!
But another image popped into my head. They’re huge licorice treats. Giants use straws made from hallowed out trees to suck out the licoricey juice. Sometimes if the Giants are being naughty they’ll spit the juice like a spitball. This sticky mess actually finishes a lot of highway construction projects without using so much tar.
Finally the driver, aka conductor, came to our conversation. My friend thought it must be the most difficult of jobs, pull all of those cars and driving the winding trail. Indeed, it would be hard putting it that way. I thought the Flintstones had it rough, running in order for their cars to move, but pulling a train is too much. Then somehow the image of the car became tiny or the hand guiding it as if it were a toy train was giangumbous, and I marveled at the smooth movement of it all.
My friend helped me see the ordinary with a childlike imagination. Writing a children’s book is on my bucket list. Such a world as she helped foster offers fertile imaginary ground.
These questions only came to me through a friend’s eyes that were seeing an American train up close and personal for the first time. Growing up in an area where trains passed through on a daily basis, the fascination of a train had escaped me many years ago. Plus I outgrew the Boxcar Children book series a while back. But my new Malawian friend peppered me with questions. And we came up with some great possibilities to the former questions.
The large boxcars concerned my friend. Really anything could be in there, she thought. And who’s to say why not? I told her all sorts of material such as coal (as energy products) and even animals travel in such cars. While riding her bike she so expertly started to jostle about as if the vibrations of the train were affecting her. In a shaky voice she said, “Can you imagine a poor cow on such a ride. Poor thing. Cows in Africa are never treated this way.” To that I could only reply with a chuckle and comeback question. “Do you mean to tell me your cows travel on couches, getting their hooves painted and drinking chai tea?” She laughed, “Of course.”
Many of the cars on the train were black barrels. When asked, I could only guess what was in them- natural gas, propane, or some other liquid/gaseous “energy” products. I’ve since learned that tanker cars (the proper name for the black barrels) coming through Spokane hold just such substances and are even proposed as training tools for haz. mat. specialists. Eek!
But another image popped into my head. They’re huge licorice treats. Giants use straws made from hallowed out trees to suck out the licoricey juice. Sometimes if the Giants are being naughty they’ll spit the juice like a spitball. This sticky mess actually finishes a lot of highway construction projects without using so much tar.
Finally the driver, aka conductor, came to our conversation. My friend thought it must be the most difficult of jobs, pull all of those cars and driving the winding trail. Indeed, it would be hard putting it that way. I thought the Flintstones had it rough, running in order for their cars to move, but pulling a train is too much. Then somehow the image of the car became tiny or the hand guiding it as if it were a toy train was giangumbous, and I marveled at the smooth movement of it all.
My friend helped me see the ordinary with a childlike imagination. Writing a children’s book is on my bucket list. Such a world as she helped foster offers fertile imaginary ground.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
wonder of narration
I admit it. I have a guilty pleasure. It’s a book on tape. And this one is Harry Potter. Yeah, yeah. I know they’re for children or fantasy players or those with way too much time on their hands. Yippee for all of you! I’m going to join the club. I decided to reread/re-listen to the last book before the movie(s) come out.
What I didn’t realize is how captivating that book is despite it’s dark subjects and plots filled with conflict. Perhaps it was Jim Dale’s narration that kept me connected to my iPod without rest or the clever writing of J.K. Rowling. Either way, I was taken. And I wondered why, despite its similar stories of war and love, good verses evil, humble heroes rising to the top, why does the Bible not captivate me in the same way. I read the Old Testament that includes outrageous tales like David and Goliath or Gideon or the 3 brothers in the furnace. Their adventures and tales are no less “magical” and amazing as Harry thwarting a huge dragon or Dobby the house elf saving wizards. Likewise, the world of Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic means as much to me as the land of Canaan or Mesopotamia. So apart from the date of publication, few major themes or literary pieces differ.
I wonder if I read Harry Potter as much as I read the Bible if my eyes would gloss over its pages too as is sometimes the case with my reading of the Bible. Similarly, if the Bible wrapped its stories up in a nice little bow at the end like HP does, I might get bored. But while grasping the clear cut message and sometimes even the character names of the Bible can be difficult, the fact that it’s a living document offers a gift that cannot be matched by any other book. In reading and rereading, messages, lessons, and insights dawn on me without the slightest provocation…in fact sometimes I’d rather keep the book shut to avoid the challenges or convictions the Bible might issue.
In the end I suspect that opening a book is the greatest challenge. If one is willing to read Harry Potter, he can’t help but be mesmerized. If one is willing to open the Bible, he can’t help but be thoroughly changed. Does the book’s cover matter or the collection of other readers? Would a better narration or translation suit a book more? Or do we as readers and believers of the Bible and good literature need to show the accessibility, validity and possibility that lies within the pages?
What I didn’t realize is how captivating that book is despite it’s dark subjects and plots filled with conflict. Perhaps it was Jim Dale’s narration that kept me connected to my iPod without rest or the clever writing of J.K. Rowling. Either way, I was taken. And I wondered why, despite its similar stories of war and love, good verses evil, humble heroes rising to the top, why does the Bible not captivate me in the same way. I read the Old Testament that includes outrageous tales like David and Goliath or Gideon or the 3 brothers in the furnace. Their adventures and tales are no less “magical” and amazing as Harry thwarting a huge dragon or Dobby the house elf saving wizards. Likewise, the world of Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic means as much to me as the land of Canaan or Mesopotamia. So apart from the date of publication, few major themes or literary pieces differ.
I wonder if I read Harry Potter as much as I read the Bible if my eyes would gloss over its pages too as is sometimes the case with my reading of the Bible. Similarly, if the Bible wrapped its stories up in a nice little bow at the end like HP does, I might get bored. But while grasping the clear cut message and sometimes even the character names of the Bible can be difficult, the fact that it’s a living document offers a gift that cannot be matched by any other book. In reading and rereading, messages, lessons, and insights dawn on me without the slightest provocation…in fact sometimes I’d rather keep the book shut to avoid the challenges or convictions the Bible might issue.
In the end I suspect that opening a book is the greatest challenge. If one is willing to read Harry Potter, he can’t help but be mesmerized. If one is willing to open the Bible, he can’t help but be thoroughly changed. Does the book’s cover matter or the collection of other readers? Would a better narration or translation suit a book more? Or do we as readers and believers of the Bible and good literature need to show the accessibility, validity and possibility that lies within the pages?
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