Tell me

I must have something to say--
the human condition and all.

I want to talk about your words
so I can tell others what they mean

A natural born critic, literature
analyst, teasing out meaning

and connecting it with lines
from other myth-makers

 did i miss my calling when
i went into pastoral ministry?

was i supposed to be writing
book reviews and bad poetry

all along?

I super love you

When I say I super love you, my heart is constricted and stressed.  I say it as a matter of survival.  I say this to my disconnected body, my aching body, my beautiful body.

When I say I super love you, I say it to my beautiful husband, my near husband, my far-away husband.  I say it as a matter of survival, a matter of fact.  I need to say it, I want to say it.

When I say it, I see it.

As true as it was, it becomes more true.

What more could I see if I said it to anyone or anything?

What more could be true if I said it to anyone or anything?

Everyone and everything?

My voice

I've always had a love-hate relationship with my own voice.

Church and school choirs, starting in grade school.

Honor choirs.

State contests.

Show choirs.

Madrigals.

College choirs.

I tried playing other instruments, but never felt the same connection with a mouthpiece, some strings, a piece of wood, or a set of tubes as I did with my own lungs and vocal chords.

I remember the conductor to our multi-school honor choir: "Now sing a sunset."  Still one of the most powerful crescendos I have ever experienced.

The affirmation when I sang a low alto part with vibrato as a freshman in high school.

The smattering of solos I managed to score.

The crying and the joy and the whole-heartedness of it all.

Like I said, sometime during college I stopped.

There was, of course, another way of exercising my voice: writing.  The countless letters and emails I wrote to friends far away.  The origin myth I wrote in high school about how there came to be so many fish in the sea that had the whole class howling.  When an elderly friend of mine, an old professor of foreign language in Hong Kong, told me I had a real gift with words.  The college essays that my professors would share as examples of a job well done.

Once, in an economic development theory class, my professor from Haiti asked me to read my essay test answers aloud.  I had a cold, so I asked her if she would.  She made me read it anyway.  Then she asked me to read the next question, and the next.  I told her I couldn't.  I was so embarrassed, afraid of my own voice.  The words on the page were powerful, but when I could no longer hide behind them, I felt exposed.  Although I had a dizzying array of facts in my head and I could organize them in neat and persuasive packages, my voice betrayed that I was a fraud.  It was all smoke and mirrors.  There was no substance in my body to effect any real change-- it was all in my mind.

I took a public speaking class in grad school.  We gave several major speeches throughout the semester.  I had prepared my words carefully, meticulously.  Every syllable was present and correct.  If it were a paper, I felt sure I would have aced it.  And yet, when it came time, I felt sure that if I stood up in front of my peers, I would be discovered: a complete poser.

All it turned out to be was self-sabotage, from beginning to end.  The words I couldn't say out loud-- they were indeed mine, born not only out of my learning and my brain but my raw open aching heart.  These words were not me, but they could be spoken as truly my own.  These were truthful words, I spoke them with my whole heart.

By some wizardry that I still don't understand, I was named valedictorian of my small high school class.  And you know what valedictorians do: they give inspirational or sentimental speeches.  Since I do neither of those genres very well, I politely declined the opportunity.  What on earth would I say that wasn't completely trite or full of platitudes?  There were also several of us at the top of the class, so many thought I refused out of deference for those equally deserving.  I'm sure the class president or someone took up the slack; I just didn't feel it was my place.  Even though I had the platform, I deferred.  I bailed.  I copped out.

Now in my thirties, I think about how many times I have chosen to silence my own voice.  To not speak up when it was my turn.  To sabotage my own goals.  To not champion my ideals.

That's not all bad, certainly.  Listening, one has the chance to learn, and it has been my primary posture in life.

I stopped singing, mostly, and I stopped writing, for many years.  Today, I am practicing using my own voice.  Maybe writing is my voice after all.  Maybe I am braver today than I was then.  Maybe I'm just as brave now as ever.  One thing: I know that I would say out loud anything I have written.  And I keep stretching my words, like a dare.  A dare to live them into being.  A dare to live my words aloud.  To prove them with my whole life.

Write your own story

I'm feeling the winter blahs.

I'm remembering that I have not left the country in quite awhile.  Note to self: update passport with new name, get husband a passport.  Plan a trip to Mexico.  Or, you know, Disneyland.  Because I've never been.  Or maybe just do some wine tasting in California or stay someplace fun this winter/spring.  You know, something warm or romantic.  Or what the hey-ho, go visit April in Idaho and stay at her house!

My palate feels dull and heavy.  All I want is fruit and Mexican food.  More lime zest and ridiculously sweet carbonated beverages, but go light on the queso, porfiz!  Srsly, eat that fruit.

It's wet out there, and so so gray.  I think I would like a bright, sunny craft to do.  Seriously, I just said a craft.  Maybe get Kate over to teach me to knit husband a scarf???  Yes, tomorrow for second breakfast!

I'm reading people's writing and wishing that I could write.  I don't know what I would write, but somehow it has something to do with what I have already read and am currently reading.  Action step: Read Undine.

I'm seeing people's kindness and altruism and wishing I could love outside of my small circle.  I guess there's a lot of work I could help with in Everett.  And I guess I have in-laws, so that's a thing.  Funny thing, I feel like Liz's parents could count as family, too.

I need some beauty in my life right now-- I think of Stephanie's singing voice.  I left her a note to leave me a singing voice mail.

Now it is time to tell you how I like your misspellings, your bad grammar, in your texts.  All your words are spelled correctly when I hear your voice, and you are punctilious in your grammar and diction.  But you do mutter at times, and I give you the benefit of the doubt.  Can I mention that you are funny when you try and when you don't?  Can I tell you how excessively family-oriented that makes me feel?  I have failed to mention how I want to see you in my living room.  Neither are you aware of how much I would like to look into your beady eyes as you are looking into mine, and I especially remember that look of complete vulnerability in your eyes, tinged with surprise, pain, shame, and gratefulness.  I can't tell you that I want to listen to "On My Own" with you, and how good that will make me feel when it has always made me cry before, because "the hopes and fears of all the years are met" in me in that song.  Could you give me a hint?  I have a few things I would like to bring up, and one is an answer to a simple question you asked but I would not answer when I was home at Christmas and you were here.  How I've wondered what your prayers entail.  I want to read aloud with you, because I think you would be very good at it, and I know that I am, when I have a voice.  I want you to share my winter evenings with your homey face and have you help me set up my book shelves and advise me on furniture that would fit up the stairs.  I want you to move onto a boat so I can visit you, and so you can have an excuse to be at my place more often.  I want to serve other people with you.  I want to be outward-focused with you, to know that together we have not just enough, but more than enough, to meet internal and external needs.  I want to see that with you.  I want to ride in your vehicle with blankets and wool socks because the heater doesn't work.  And maybe someday I will want you to put your hand on my back. 

I want to get married for every reason in the book.  If you separate any one of the reasons from the fold and put it on display like a shorn sheep, it looks pathetic, cold, sappy, or utilitarian.  But combined, look at what a good thing marriage is, how utterly reasonable it is!  How healthful!  How simple!

exactly where you are

Once upon a time...

we received the good.

"Accept it all and let it be for good...

"This moment's pulse, this rhythm in your blood...  Stay with the music.  Words will come in time...

"And when the heart is full of quietness, begin the song exactly where you are."  Malcolm Guite

Amen, and thank you, Jesus.

Why has my flow of thankfulness been punctuated by cursing and anger?  Lament and desire for remittance?

That is where I begin-- exactly as and where I am.  I love you, and sorrow, and find myself in the middle of age-old friendships and betrayals.  I take my stand FOR the good.  Help me to embody that good, the kind that forgives and reconciles and tells the good truth.  God, make me salt water and fresh water.  Make me foam when I break against the rocks.  Make that breaking spectacular and salty like my language, fierce and proud, and ethereal and fluid.  Help me to retreat and regroup and re-assail.  Make me fresh water that receives from above and below the essential life giving liquids and reflects the clarity and light of the firmament.  Your ways are so, so good and wonderful and loving and beloved and clear and light and no darkness at all.  You tell us what will happen before it happens.  You give encouragement and warning.  You call for truth and justice, for those are your ways.  You delight in mercy and in unity, and you call us to persevere, to expend ourselves, towards those ends.

Thank you for late night talks with Rob, for his desire to understand the words I am not saying, for his love.  Thank you for the mercy it is to find comfort in him.  Thank you for how unity requires perseverance, and is able to open our eyes, and challenge us to challenge and repair the disunity all around us.  Help us to be unifying forces, and love you dreadfully.

When I Swore in my Head at Work

When I swore in my head at work, it happened at the strangest time.

I was walking up the basement stairs after picking up my lunch salad from the fridge, and as I passed the curtained-off office of my co-workers, my legs felt strong.  Like they knew they missed running this morning, and had at least 3 miles to make up for.  Like I had been running up the stairs all morning.  Like I had actually hiked in the mountains as part of a previous job.

Strong legs and memories.  That's what prompted it.

I wanted to tell them, "I could climb mountains with these things, *insert swear words you can call people here*."  And then I wanted to run out of the office and find the nearest mountain, which happens to be Pillchuck, which you can see from the office building on a relatively clear day.

To be honest, I don't swear that much in my head.  Anymore.  It's been a few years since that phase died down, and it only lasted a year or so anyway.  I'm sure it'll come back to bite me in the *not saying that cuss word here* when I'm senile and all I can do is speak out these words from that one year.

But I was surprised at how strongly I was feeling against those curtain-cloistered co-workers.  "You don't know what I'm capable of!" I wanted to say.  "I can climb and run and do way more than you're paying me for!"  Of course I can, and they know that.  It's just that nobody thinks about it except me.  "I'm really smart!  And I could be doin' stuff!"  What, do I think they'll hire me to go home right now and write that Russian-literature inspired masterpiece of the English language?

I guess that's what's so helpful about having friends.  They know I'm better than this job.  They know I've got skills that are useful in the real world other than typing really fast and speaking politely over the phone.  They love me and celebrate and these gifts, and encourage me to explore and grow them.

I guess that's my cue to be my own friend and say, "*Word* it!  You are so good at so much *noun* that you should just go and do.  The world will thank you and you will bless God.  You should go do something amazing, like climb a mountain.  Or write a story.  Or travel, *blank* it!  Or water your garden that you already have that is awesome.  Or kiss your favorite fiancee and then do it again.  You do cool *stuff* and there's no one like you.  No one else can feel the rain on your face... or the muscles in your legs as you mountain goat up the switchbacks.  You'll never get a runner's high without your own cooperation.

So go on, take that jog!  Take that job!  Volunteer at that place!  Visit that migrant farm outreach!  Speak your own *blank* Spanish again.  Do your favorite blissful things that make your face come alive and your heart expand beyond the confines of the atmosphere.  Be a *really good* counselor!  Reach out to someone in need and let their life matter to you.  Read a life-altering book.  Write one!  Write a love letter!  In Spanish!  Wear that fancy dress!  Paint those toenails again!  Buy that carazy-expensive makeup and wear the heck out of it!  Say your prayers till Jesus comes!  Say it again!  Talk about your love life with the Holy Ghost and blow people's minds!  Plan your own damn birthday!  Ask for what you want!  Write yourself the best love letter you can think of!

Create your own treasure hunt!  Prayer labyrinth!  Website! Watercolor greeting card!  Sister adventure!  Bridal shower!  Recipe!  Leaf sculpture! Hand-written letter!  Envelope!  Collage!  Pottery bowl!  Pillowcase!  Dress!  Hemmed-up pants!  Tea leaf concoction!  Body scrub!  Pinterest board!  Anthropologie wish list!  Pillow fort!  Prayer nook!  Amen!

Tonight, I'm going home.  And I am excited to MAKE SOME COOKIES, which I am going to SHARE WITH MY SMALL GROUP FROM CHURCH, damnit!

I hope that blesses your heart.

I'm going to be alive.

taste the rainbow and the rain arrow

I shot the rainbow with my arrow.

It took a few tries to hit my target.

When I hit just right, at the apex of the bow,

the bow took my perfectly flung arrow,

And shot it into the heavens.

And by that, I mean the stars.

And by that, first I mean the moon.

And then all the planets that happen to be in a row, above or below.

And then the first neighboring star, if you happen to be heading in that direction,

Our sun.

And then, if your aim is true, it will reach the heavens.

Which can also be a term for the skies we see...

So it might just hit beyond our reach.

Which, if you think about it, is a good place to shoot for.

In any case.

Flew to the sun.

Once upon a time, I was caught in the sunshine, and between me and the sun stood so many miles of space, and one window.

So I jumped out the window.

And flung myself through space.

The heat from the force of my jump caused a burning sensation in my legs.

Which fortunately kept them from freezing off while I flew through space.

I held my breath.

I wore my glasses, because everyone knows it's safer.

When flying through space.

To wear eye protection.

This everyone knows.

Back at the window, the leaves waved to the empty desk inside.

And the sun shone on the keyboard.

unknown

I saw you get out of your car.  You turned the radio down just enough for me to miss the name of the last song.  I heard you are getting married.  That's great.  I can't remember the guy's name.  I met him once at the  intramural softball game.  I remember you at church softball games, when we were in high school.  You know, back when we went to church.  I suppose you look happy.  You looked happy then, too, but much skinnier, and your clothes didn't fit as well.  Nobody was holding your hand on the bleachers, and you always wondered what it would be like to have a player to cheer for, other than your dad, who was pitching.  And it's hard to cheer for a pitcher, especially one who doesn't hit or run or make fast plays.  And is your dad.  I think you're used to being embarrassed.  But that could just be me talking.  Now it's all intentional.  What will you use to manage your shame?

love song melancholy

It hit me, the melancholy, listening to sappy love songs that my sister sent me as possible wedding music fodder.  "You and I, we can conquer the world."  First, Rob doesn't like Michael Buble, and second, I don't feel like we can conquer the world.  Maybe Rob does, but I don't.  I don't feel like a power couple.  I feel like making no grandiose promises.  We are more like the simplicity of "I Will Be Here".  That's simple enough, but maybe really hard.  Who's to say?

What on earth is oneness-- what is unity in diversity?  What on earth is sanctification and how does that correspond to oneness in marriage?  What on earth are we here to do?  I remember that we were getting pretty excited about Christian living when we listened to Pastor Jeff talk about participation in the glory of God, living the way we were designed to live, spurring one another on to living well, from the spirit of Christ, everything.

Tozer on Spiritual Concentration and the inner life. “Retire from the world each day to some private spot, even if it be only the bedroom (for a while I retreated to the furnace room for want of a better place). Stay in the secret place till the surrounding noises begin to fade out of your heart and a sense of God’s presence envelopes you. Deliberately tune out the unpleasant sounds and come out of your closet determined not to hear them. Listen for the inward Voice till you learn to recognize it. Stop trying to compete with others. Give yourself to God and then be what and who you are without regard to what others think. Reduce your interests to a few. Learn to pray inwardly every moment. After a while you can do this even while you work. Practice candor, childlike honesty, humility. Pray for a single eye. Read less, but read more of what is important to your inner life. Never let your mind remain scattered for very long. Call home your roving thoughts. Gaze on Christ with the eyes of your soul. Practice spiritual concentration. “

Tell stories. Use words if necessary.

Once upon a time, I ran out of stories.  So I had to borrow other people's stories.  Some are better than others.  Some help me start story-ing again.

Once upon a time, all my stories had no beginnings or endings, just middles.  It's because I forgot about the beginning and couldn't imagine an ending.

Once upon a time, these things happen every day.  Thank God for imagination, for memory, and for the shared collective of human stories.

We can do this.

a little bit ticklish

What kind of man is he, this friend of yours, that we may admire him?

Well, he's a story-teller, first and foremost.

He's a learner, so he's a teacher.
And he's a little bit ticklish.
I keep trying to avoid it, but he's made of the stuff.

He is funny and silly and serious.
He is quiet and merciful and brave.
He surprises me with what comes out of his mouth.
That is, when I am listening long enough.

An excellent game player, and that's a fact.
Careful and precise and mindful.
More competitive than he lets on.
Learning is as important as winning, and more.

He texted me this morning asking if we could be pirates.
Of course my answer was yes, and when.
What do we need, did I have to lose an eye or leg?
He suggested we start tonight, which settled it.

One of the handiest men I know.
Like an un-flanneled Al Borland, with glasses.
Fixed the light switch box in my parents' basement,
Eradicated a mouse from my kitchen drawer.

Unsentimentally, I can tell you that he cries.
He cries for himself, for his own pain, and for others.
He cries in real time, and when it matters.
I believe in his connection to life and death, and the other.

I guess it's a little bit ticklish.

miss january

Hanging on your wall, downstairs in your basement room, or perhaps still in your backpack, or on your desk, in a pile and a flurry of other things, is the calendar that my dad made for you for Christmas 2013.  

I wonder if you will hang it up, or if you will keep it someplace private and quiet.  I wonder how often you will look at it, and how you will feel when you see the pictures.  I wonder who else you will tell about it.  

*(My dad gave my boyfriend a calendar full of pictures from me.  As he opened it, he wouldn't show it to me at first, and I assumed the worst-- embarrassing childhood photos. But no, it was nicely done, with pretty quotations and recent photographs.  What a sweet gesture.)

Is it not good news?  Is not all good news so personal, a father saying, "Look, this is my daughter.  Is she not lovely?"  

I told you that it felt like a twelve-month lease.  You laughed because you couldn't help it, you were shocked into explosion.  I always like it when that happens.  I like seeing your insides out, a truth you can't help telling.  

Long hair is companionable.
When I look down at my shoulder, there it is.
I imagine right now that it is a nice animal to pet.
I imagine that this kind animal has volunteered to keep me warm this winter.
I bathe it and dry it and try to keep it from embarrassing me too much.
But it is not, as they say, a tame animal.
It will be misbehaving!
Nevertheless, I am thankful for its presence in my life.
Wild though it be.

magic

The leaves have fallen
There's magic in the dry branch
Thick inside the veins
  
Magia gruesa, espesa.

Dentist update

I received two cards in the mail yesterday (along with birthday presents from Auntie Judy!).  One card was from my mom and had a cut out picture of a broccoli birthday cake (yes, stems of broccoli with candles on top of some kind of white sauce) and had back health stretching exercises inside.

The second card was, I assumed, also a birthday card, but no!  I couldn't have been more wronger.  It was a handwritten note in a card from my new BFF, the dentist's office, wherein they thanked me for my patronage and literally congratulated me on my excellent teeth and good checkup.

I'll assume by all that, they really meant, "Happy birthday!"

dentist

So, I went to the dentist today.  Yup, no longer have those coffee stains on my two bottom front teeth.  Let's pretend, for now, that coffee was the only thing staining those off-white pearls. Um...

I have never had a date to the dentist until today.  I have never had a date for many things until this year.  Weddings, for example.  Weddings were hard and dateless.  Wedding dates are your sister, if you have one, or a mutual friend to carpool, if you're lucky.  But I have had a wedding date for the past three-four weddings, courtesy of the man-cub.  Yes, that's what someone at the first wedding we went to together called him.  Seriously, it became a thing.  We laugh about it now.  It's okay.  And today, my first dentist date!  Interested?  Of course you are!  Read on!

We found the place (it is a new dentist for me) and he sat and read patiently while they x-rayed every portion of my mouth and even took photographs.  I assume it's because I'm so good looking.  But it's probably because they really like my teeth.   No, it's probably protocol, but they really, really like my teeth.  They said, "We don't see teeth this good in this area.  I'm jealous.  I wish I had your teeth."  The dentist said it, the hygienist said it, everyone.  Apparently I come from good stock in the bone department, and, you know, we rinsed with fluoride in grade school.  I credit my no-cavity smile with having had orthodontic work for years at a point when most kids eat sugar and chew gum and wreck their faces.  I brushed my teeth after everything I ate or drank (once famously refusing a snack in sixth grade because I wouldn't have time to brush my teeth before we took the hour long bus ride back home), and I stayed away from the bad food list.  My mom was a nurse, so no soda for us (hardly), just four to six glasses of milk a day.  You think I kid, but I do not.  And I still hate eating sticky food that I avoided back then.  It's just so hard to clean, and I worry that my teeth will get ripped out.  Or just my little protective dental caps on my molars for avoiding cavities, or whatever they're really called.  On the downside, I was severely reprimanded by the hygienist for not flossing, and I told her in my last ditch effort that I had bought those single-use dental picks, and she was slightly pacified.  Still, concerned.

I got done with the cleaning after such bloody gums you wouldn't want to be me except unless you were in a horror flick and it was byob (bring your own blood).  Boyfriend had finished reading the TIME Abraham Lincoln special (boring, he knew it all, the smartie) and much of his cheesy detective novel, so he was ready to hit the pavement and find some food with me.  Brunch.  So we went to IHOP after some deliberation, and were well rewarded.  Twins!  My favorites!  Working together!  And cute!  So, that basically made our collective day.  Also, boyfriend and I have an ongoing joke about sloth fingers, and pretended to steal the leftover tip money at our table, very slowly.  Rob laughed inordinately.  So did our cute server.  She's the best.  Really.  So much sweetness.  We also joked about having an in-depth conversation about fluoride, which was punctuated intentionally by holding hands and leaning in across the table, and sometimes giving worried looks.  It was fun. 

We tipped, paid the other cutest twin ever, and left full of breakfast.  Boyfriend dropped me off, 'cuz duh, who's going to take two cars to something so far away?  So he's picking me up in an hour and I'm already stoked to hang out with him because he's my favorite.  Also because he shaved his neck beard.  And while that may not win points, it certainly stops taking them away.  It's like he has a scarf, made of fur, that goes all the way around his neck. 

You will, perhaps, recall the controversy surrounding the "restoration" of the painting Ecco Homo, or Cecelia Jimenez's version of it, Beast Jesus, and perhaps, the SNL skit based on her fame: "He had beautiful hair that became a scarf. It was a scarf made of hair that wrapped around his little, brown, expressionless face. And then he look at me with his dead black eyes...I say Jesus, why you look like a shark?"

And with that, I leave you to do something REALLY important.  No, really.  It's important. 

that kind of girl.

I want to be the kind of girl that...

Meets the Pope and talks with him about topics of current interest.
Dances with Stephen Colbert on his show.
Travels to Spain.
Opens a counseling practice.
Obtains a Spiritual Direction certification.
Sings in a choir.
Writes songs and collaborates with other artists.
Writes stories and collaborates with other artists.


I would also like to be the kind of girl that

Sings karaoke.
Dances in the kitchen with her man-friend.
Sleeps out of doors.
Takes the train to Portland.
Plants garlic in the fall.
Is honest with her friends and says uncomfortable and potentially embarrassing things.