If I Could Blink

Transitions aren’t my forte. In fact, when I first moved to Spokane from Casper, the idea that driving to the other edge of town took longer than 10 minutes floored me. I was late to so many meetings. Downtown was a foreign country as far as I was concerned. I figured an encyclopedia on tape wouldn’t be long enough for the ride. Since those first days “off the ranch” I’ve learned to deal with commuting, transitions and all the stop and go that is implied to driving.

Today, I read a report from Rwanda published in Sept. 2010 that stops all adoptions until the country has been accepted under the rules of the Hague Convention. This is a worthy goal and I’m yet again impressed by this African country which stole my heart when I visited in 2009. And yet, this process that safeguards both adoptees and adopters can take a year or more to implement! That means that all children not already in the “pipeline” for adoption will just have to wait. Of course, people can always try to adopt in non-Convention countries or independently, but that’s even more of a logistical nightmare, not to mention an uncertainty in finalizing the adoption both in the Rwanda and America.

So here I am thinking about transitions again. Kids who desperately need homes can’t drive any faster, nor can their country in its efforts of due diligence. At first I thought this was a waste of time for the kids because they shouldn’t have to wait this long. What will change in that time? But perhaps the orphanages will improve their efforts and programs to fall into compliance with the Convention which would make life for those waiting all the better. This time might be used to promote the country, focus on in-country adoptions, and/or raise awareness.

Still I want Rwanda to be there, now. I don’t want to stop for the light. I want them to have a free pass to “GO” and move forward in making adoptions possible again. If I could blink, I would see this time flash by, this transition as a mere breath in time. But I can’t nor can I make any other transition move that quickly. So instead, I’m thinking outside the box. How can this or any transition bring life and be good in and of itself while we wait? Sometimes I listen to the news, journal about the process, plug in my iPod. These days I’m just praying. A silent drive. A silent transition. An opportunity for earth-shattering growth.

Out of Words

My friend wrote a blog with the same title. I have had an interesting problem with this reality though not for the same reasons as hers. But I feel like if we’re both in this boat, we can share a title. I need all the help I can get!

This week has been spent wishing I had a dictionary to point out the thoughts, phrases or simple nouns that I wanted to convey to various people. At track practice I couldn’t spit out or remember (hard to say whether the mind or the tongue was the culprit) the name of any drill. Thankfully muscle memory rarely fails me. Perhaps I should learn sign language… All that said (or unsaid) I was left moving my body to model what I wanted and using the ever so descriptive words such as “the whatchee” or “you know, This.”
Me: the Pulitzer Prize NON-contender.

Later I ran into situations when I couldn’t properly convey my thoughts and feelings without potentially saying the wrong thing that might hurt. Likewise, when I finally did string words together at an important moment, they came out in an unfortunate and embarrassing way. With such circumstances, I could cry, hoping the tears would spell out something articulate.

I recalled a song by Ben Glover, entitled “26 letters” which explains the limitation that 26 letters has on expressing emotion, hopes, fears, dreams, requests, and simple thanks. This particular song speaks of these actions as they apply to God.

26 letters is all I got
To tell You how I feel about You
26 letters and you know I'm never ever
Gonna write the perfect paragraph
I try to express
with adjectives of thankfulness
But, I don't know if I can do it
With 26 letters

And like Ben, I’m not sure I can handle 26 letters. Not that more letters would be helpful, as I can’t even remember the currently approved combinations. But perhaps like Ben, I realized that that which needs to be said holds such great weight, mere words or letters can’t bear it. What words fully express the gratitude for “being you”? What words truly reveal the desire and need for forgiveness of friends and God? What words offer the ample praise, glory and love that my God deserves?

I won’t stop trying to find the words. I quite like utilizing a vocabulary beyond simple pronouns and body movements. And I also realize after this week that words are precious, missed when not had and discouraging when used poorly.

Full Moon Days

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.

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.

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…

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.

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?