Sunday, December 30, 2018

Reading Deprivation, November 23 2018

I'm supposed to be in reading deprivation now. As I looked into the benefits, I realized it might be really helpful. Reading might be part of the problem, numbing and overcrowding, overstimulating my brain. I tend to think it helps, but it can get legalistic or addictive. Even Bible reading - less may be more.

Help me, Lord, to meditate on Your Word, to love and desire and live and think it more now, if I choose to read it or not. I am afraid of losing touch, but You Yourself are in and with me, and I have hidden Your Word in my heart. I don't need to be afraid, just humble and obedient. Willing.

Thank You for helping me cry in the shower, bent double, my face stretched like a pegged tent. Quiet retching sobs, hot water pummeling my back.


Creative, Sane, and Out of My Mind, November 23 2018

It feels so ironic that I'm supposed to be teaching on staying creative and sane next weekend, when I feel so paralyzed and out of my mind. But I know that's not truth. It's not You talking. You have me doing this for a reason, and I can do it like none other. I'm particularly fitted for this. My weakness is Your raw material. My anxiety Your platform to bring honesty and authentic power.

I am worried about spending lots of time with three intense and sensitive and honest and intimate friends. Afraid something will go wrong, especially if it's my fault. I don't want to disappoint them. I also want to make sure I have space, boundaries (esp. emotional), and it seems impossible to guarantee. Would You pave the way for me? Would You help me cry if I need to? 

Thanksgiving Still, November 22 2018

It was a day of various feelings. Parts of today were really hard. Feeling ill in mind, feeling trapped, disconnected from truth or reality or who I am - the good things, anyway. Feeling anxious and despairing, angry, numb, stuck, useless, compulsive, edgy. Like a little thing might send me into tears, or out the door. If someone had handed me a telephone. If I had suddenly been required to go somewhere.

Reading defined my day. It gave me a focus, a goal, a reason to be alone today, which I desperately needed. I did help some in the kitchen. I'm glad it was just us. For a sour period I wished away holidays, "Always like this": passive-aggressive comments, too much unnecessary work, too many dirty dishes, overeating, insecurity about weight or disapproval of gluttony, knives scraping plates, and unpleasant noises and odors for days. I was bothered that the Cowboys played the Redskins today. And that the episodes of Little Rascals we watched were not PC - some laughs at the expense of black or overweight people. Do we boycott these things? Censor them? Watch them, but with vocal criticism? If I wouldn't want my friends to watch it, should I?

Don't let me get comfortable, Lord. Please. And don't stop telling me You love me. Thanks for helping me reach out tonight, find a safe way to describe what I'm going through, have Mom and Dad pray for me. I craved that. I miss that. We all need Your life. Please keep giving Your life. Help me take it slow, focus, and hold on to truth. Help me to trust You. Help me to pray for others.

Miserere mei, Deus.

Thanksgiving, November 22 2018

Yesterday I didn't want to see anyone, didn't want to talk, and I still feel a little bit like that this morning, but it's not awful. I want to write cards today. I want to paint. I want to read. I want to enjoy my life. I can walk, I can breathe, I can sing.
Please comfort and protect those who are vulnerable today. Those on the street. Those missing family, or without family. Those whose health is fragile. People will die today. Please open our hearts and homes and wallets to be generous and to pass on the lavish grace You've given us. Lavish. It almost sounds like a bad word.

Please remind me again how adept You are at caring for me and using me even when - especially when - I'm weak. Please speak truth over lies. Please do that for every person struggling today with food or people they'll see. Please provide ways of escape for those who will be tempted. Please unify Your children. Make this a glorious, affirming, beautiful day for my friends and my siblings.

Please, Lord, show us our responsibility to love and humble ourselves toward others, including those we've wronged. Please strengthen the many First Peoples of this continent. Please fight for them. Please renew their hope and spiritual hunger and vision for life. Please raise up leaders that will do Your will and live with integrity, dignity, vision, and wisdom. Please don't let America be a place of blindness, entitlement, abuse, or exploitation. Please make it a place of genuine repentance, compassion, generosity, gratitude, and restraint. Make us prudent, temperate, just, full of fortitude. Make us loving, hopeful, and faithful. 

Many Thanks, November 21 2018

Thank You for the moon over the purple hill as I was driving home yesterday. Thank You for my dusk walk today, into darkness. And to the catalpa, damp breath making the bark fragrant. I sat in the elbow of the apple tree. I listened.
I think sitting in trees will always give me a sense of wellbeing. I need to remember this.

Thanks for talking and prayer with A. Thank You that I felt really really awful in the late afternoon, but asked for prayer and went on. Went out. And still went to the service, and sang loud between Q and T, and even talked about Your provision. Thanks for all the things You're doing.

B and I hooked arms and skipped to our cars, and J ran back to hook arms and skip with Q. And I didn't hit any animals or people or other cars on the road. And Dad picked an enormous beet today. And You gave me music, by surprise. 

Feel a Lot, Feel Little, November 21 2018

Tuesday was hard. Not awful, and not bad as a whole, but it had a big sopping hole in the middle. I was pretty worn out at the end of errands and shopping, and then Mom reminded me we should call and visit folks. I was so upset. I felt like I had to say yes, but I was topped off. Spilling over, and the water wasn't sweet. Dear Amy Carmichael had that illustration right.

We went over, but I felt like someone going insane and trying to hold it together. I've realized they make me feel little. Coddled and annoyed, and guilty because I'm supposed to be grateful. So I feel bestial. I wanted to scream, roar, destroy something, tear something up, run away, die in the quiet dirt. Sometimes I think about how E would bang on the table if his food was too hot or he bit his tongue. I've felt like doing that so many times. I'm afraid of what would happen if I started.
Dad recently told me there are no longer any "rules" for me in this house, I'm just aware of preferences. It still feels like rules to me. It's almost worse. If I don't hear otherwise, preferences demand filial obedience from the Almighty. I'd like to keep the conversation open, so that deviation from preferences isn't voluntary sin. It doesn't matter, though. I will always be rebellious. I will always have a choice. I need to learn boundaries, and let things fall where they may sometimes.

"Giddy with godhead or with nonexistence". That happy Richard Wilbur phrase just cropped up in my head. I want to write more music. Good music, that I actually like. I think it will mean including friends, and taking time with it. And practice. This morning's Proverb reminds me that the king's heart is in the hands of the Lord. Every man's heart. My man's. Every man who isn't mine and never shall be. T___p's. Not my man. Father God, please direct me. Thank You for making me feel alright, not squished, when I feel little with You. 

Saturday, December 22, 2018

On Nurturing Creativity, November 18 2018

What nurtures creativity?

Start with prayer. I want to talk about morning pages and artist dates. And about paying attention. About how guilt and bullying are horrible motivators. Love and curiosity and play, those are good. WONDER. Listen to your natural rhythms. Be disciplined, show up to the work when you don't feel like it, but don't bludgeon yourself.

Art feeds art. Watch, read, listen to good things.

Being outside, reading good things (Bible included) are endless sources for material. Just living life, interacting with people. Let yourself feel things, notice things. Let yourself get angry, or be delighted, or inquisitive.
Pay attention to your anger, your jealousy, and what it's telling you.

Be careful who you allow to be a critic in your life. Write out all the things people may have said, or the attitudes you may have encountered, that paralyzed or disempowered or invalidated you. The things that made you feel guilt or confusion or fear. Then think about truth you can use to counter them. Maybe other, positive things people have said. Or the truth you have trouble believing about God and the nature of things, like how God is a Creator and made you to create. Creativity delights His heart. Artists can be sane and solvent. Artists can have healthy relationships. What so-and-so said about your poem or painting, etc., doesn't define you and may not be true at all. Just because your work wasn't the best in the class doesn't mean it's junk or that it doesn't matter. Even if your work always gets praised, it may not be great art, and you still need to practice. You don't live for praise.

Consider your job like that of an electrician (thanks, Mark Potter!). You're not Prometheus or a prostitute. People aren't here to worship your brilliance. Nor are you here to be their slave and pander to their whims. You're here to see what they need, and do something about it as only you can. Be a prophet. Speak the truth. The beautiful truth, and the difficult truth. Notice. Pay attention. Imagine what's possible.


We Change Each Other, November 14 2018

We change each other. And that's intoxicating and terrifying. And part of what puts me off from dating in general. Every little foray changes you. Would I be able to date, anyone, at this point in time? Would I feel like I had set out to do what God gave me to do, and done it? I'm referring to art, family, friends, etc.
I still see them too much as training ground for marriage, not for eternity. Marriage is also training ground, for all of those things. It's a good thing. It's not the best thing. It doesn't need to happen for my life to be complete, hard as that is to swallow. I don't need sex. I don't need a home. I don't need kids. I don't need health, or my hair, or my paints to know God. Help me to see my life stripped away, the essentials, and know what matters.

Maybe that's why I want to get rid of things, and none of my clothes feel right. Nothing is perfect. Anything could be got rid of. Even my favorites are flawed. How can I live to please You? A life of noticing, a life of poetry? The Kindergarten Teacher was wrenching and real, in that way. "I have a poem". So much to interact with in that film. So complex. But I'm glad, for now, that I watched it alone, and can't over-talk it. Who knows if I'll ever get to see it again, with the same flexibility on censorship I had on my Mac. But You know. Please, God. You hear me wanting You? You Yourself have been calling me, haven't You? Keep calling. "The heart rears wings bold and bolder / and hurls for him, Oh half hurls earth for him off under his feet". "You're gonna need / all the help you can get / so lift up your arms now / and reach for it". "It is almost like a sign from God". "O Christ / do you wake my ghost? / Sometimes it seems impossible / Did you give your body up to forge my trust? / Did you give your body up just to suffer for my savage love?" "Everywhere I go I see You". "All the stars we steal from the night sky will never be enough".  "There's no denying beauty makes a sound". "We're so helpless / we're slaves to our impulses / we're afraid of our emotions / and no one knows where the shore is / we're divided by the ocean / and the only thing I know is / that the answer isn't for us / no the answer isn't for us". "I'm secretly on your side". "Don't sit there stupid / get up and take it with both your hands". "I convinced myself that I would never find you / when suddenly I saw you." "A burden may change your mind".



Gerard Manley Hopkins: "Hurrahing in Harvest"
Glen Hansard, "Song of Good Hope"
The Kindergarten Teacher, "Anna"
John Mark McMillan, "Enemy, Love"
Rich Mullins, "I See You"
The Greatest Showman, "Never Enough"
NEEDTOBREATHE, "TESTIFY"
Feist, "So Sorry"
Imogen Heap, "Just for Now"
Katie Joy Nellis, "Succour"
Sleeping at Last, "Venus"
Horse Feathers, "A Burden"

Saturday, December 15, 2018

Whistling + Humming, November 12 2018

Yesterday morning, before we left for church, I practiced synchronized whistling and humming. I'm already getting slightly better. I sang a song:

"I can see my future / it's hazy and hopeful / a future where I whistle and hum in haaahmony!"

Something like that.
The Blue Ridge Mountains are so beautiful. I don't know if I'll ever live in the mountains, but a large chunk of me wants to. I might sing differently. I think your landscape informs your songs.


Free Spirit, November 11 2018

I've been trying to acknowledge my negative self-talk instead of just stuffing or replaying it, so I can answer it. Of course, I'm being too sensitive. But what I can I learn from my responses?

That I want my family to be proud of me. That I want to be perceived as professional and mature, or at least mature. That I want respect. And yet - that I don't want to have shallow, polished manners. That I don't want to be a slave to fashion or expense. That I do, in fact, WANT to challenge people's perceptions. To widen their experience. To give them other options for how to live, what to prioritize, how to love. To bring an air of freedom. To be authentic and refreshing. To be surprising. And to be comfortable enough with myself that I can admit all the appropriate facts, and even accept outright criticism, not balk at imagined scrutiny. You've got to help me, Free Spirit. 

Prove Me Wrong, November 11 2018

J met us there to give us a tour, and we ended up talking for a while, learning about his background in the Army (E9) and his current "boring" retired life as a substitute teacher. He was in active combat situations 5 times. It sounded pretty intense. He has PTSD, has to take meds to sleep.

I admit I was judging him before this conversation, because he talked slow and made shifty eye contact. I thought he might have some kind of addiction or deviance, but I wasn't empathetic enough to imagine PTSD. Or to imagine that he could be a highly intelligent, well-traveled, authoritative, visionary man. I'm glad when You prove me wrong, Lord. 

Art Critics, November 10 2018, Blue Ridge VA

There is a painting in this room, on the wall beside me, and I sang a little song about it yesterday:

"It's really weird / I don't like this painting / Oh well."

Sorry, "R. Young".
It doesn't look loved. The technique is colloquial and inconsistent. A cheap escheat. A Paris street "because that sells", I can almost hear the jaded artist say. There is a tiny passage I can stomach: two women walking into the obscuring mist. There might be a part of the sky I can like as well.

If you're going to paint with a palette knife, show us what it can do. Shortening can be cut into biscuits with more artistry. I am being very critical. Is this what critics do? Make a game, build or topple a career? I feel like someone tasting wine or coffee and imagining what is sophisticated or interesting to say, "Those fruity notes" "satiny finish" "chocolate undertones".

Something Dead, November 8 2018

The wasp's nest is in my room. Excuse me, the hornet's nest. I really like it in here, for now. But it's a bit stinky. Like dry saliva or something dead.

I hit a raccoon tonight. I hope I killed it quickly. It was horrible.
I didn't react fast enough to swerve out of the way; it galloped across the road in front of me, and I didn't stop. The car behind me might have avoided the body, I'm not sure, but I definitely crunched it. Back at home I gave a cursory inspection, and found a few wiry white hairs stuck under the nose, near the tire.

The accident interrupted a happy song. Afterward I tried to sing laments. Lacrimosa. I felt I should have done something to pay for that life. What instinct is that? 

Friday, November 2, 2018

The Texas Minister Preaches Revival, November 2 2018

Someone in the room, I don't know who,
is nettled. Is only here because
someone said it was a good idea,
and maybe wanted a spectacle. Some emotion.
Not this thick toast and honey butter.
Not this chutney with a bite.
This stings. This kneads the hardened muscles till
it burns deep down, and you want it
to stop, and you don't. You want water.
You want all the water in the whole world.
The wateriest water. You wake up
thirsty. You wake up mad. Not in the mood
for a lot of pesky questions.

Let's just pause here for a second:
What did you expect?
Nothing, hopefully. Or something
for everyone else but you.
Or something reassuring.
Not this repetitive dunking
in the Jordan. Not this familiarity
and fire. You like your prophets
dazzling and remote. Someone wrap a sheet
around the Holy Ghost. 

Thursday, November 1, 2018

Sunday, October 28, 2018

Blessed are the Pure in Heart, October 26 2018

Lord Jesus,
Please show me what is between us, give me a repentant heart.
Help me to be ready to do whatever it takes. We need to be right. There is no substitute for a clear conscience. The world sings around you. The dogs don't bite. The unicorns lay their heads in your lap.
And I want to see You.


Friday, October 26, 2018

Prove Something, October 22 2018

Please forgive me, Father, for wanting to prove something more than preserve and promote flourishing, shalom. Please protect others from me. Please convict me of sin, and assure me of freedom. Please draw me to purity: to real love of the GOOD.


Aftershock, October 11 2018

I woke up this morning around 9:30, aching and bleary and with a splitting headache. I also bled onto my sheets. My body held off during the taut days of preparation, and rolled in with a rush this morning. I made tea and hand-washed my laundry in the sink, in a quiet fog. I had a little yogurt with Mom and Dad, and went back to bed. I was mostly in bed all morning.

I keep thinking about yesterday. It brought people together. It told us that we really were safe, to be hurt and even to be ridiculous. How do we accept that we WILL be messy, make other people's lives harder and more complicated? We might actually be burdens.

I love life so much.
I love You, God. After big vulnerable open emotional/spiritual events, it's easy to retract and feel too naked or strangely discolored. Easy to suddenly not feel any of it. "Was that real? Do You exist, God?" And You continue the same. So gracious. Never canceling Your welcome. 

The Mug, for M., October 5 2018

I am drinking decaf tea out of a mug
that says, Will you be my maid of honor?
It came unexpectedly yesterday afternoon,
responsibly nestled in an Amazon box,
with a note from my brother's fiancée. It was
a complete surprise. I didn't expect to be
in the bridal party at all, I hardly know her,
but she knows what I mean to my brother,
and we are going to be sisters.
When my brother was born, I was disappointed
that he wasn't a girl. But he is giving me a new sister.

This afternoon I used the mug for the first time,
finishing off last season's pumpkin spice coffee
that my Dad had carefully labelled in a peanut butter jar.
He measured out the grounds into his French press,
I sniffed the past-date cream.
We practiced alchemy in our steaming mugs:
the perfect balance of fat and sweetness,
to our taste. We toasted. And we talked,
in the leisurely way you do when having coffee.

We talked about a lot today. At lunch,
we talked about rape culture, the blame put on victims,
the way I've found it difficult to speak up
or blow the whistle when I've been harassed.
I didn't tell my Dad particulars. I didn't
tell him how I gave away my favorite green dress
because too many men made comments, and one was suggestive.
I wanted to be a virtuous woman, not an object.
A maid of honor. I was comforted to see
that even though my Dad could not relate, he cared.
He didn't invalidate. I was safe.
I thought I might say more another time.

He just knocked and came in to say goodnight,
and to show me something he found in the cupboard:
a packet with a pot's worth
of pumpkin spice coffee.
He said Mom will join us next time. 

I Love My Life, October 4 2018

I love my life. I am writing this in pen. 

A Rustle in the Thicket, October 3 2018

In her profile picture she looked clean and polished and linear. She's more like a rustle in the thicket.
She was very friendly and open with me, which was refreshing. Still, I felt babyish and compromised by my knowledge of her "status" - wanting to act natural and normal and interested, but not like a fangirl.

Passion and Purity, September 23 2018

Just now I was reading "Passion and Purity" and remembering when I first read it, at the Cove. I was startled again by Jim's senior year rumspringa, and by his mother's take on his indecisiveness. So easy to be cynical. And hypocritical. And despairing. I feel so much sin in myself, seeking opportunity. So much absurd and perverted sin. I even have to be willing to let things that were "OK" once be "not OK" now. If they distract.


Manna Time, September 19 2018

I got a Rewards coupon for A.C. Moore in the mail today. That's a real blessing right now. I feel like this is manna time. Certainly circumstances encouraging dependence, and prohibitive of saving. "Foot to mouth" as I call it sometimes. And yet I'm so thankful for this opportunity. In this land of entitlement, I can take just a little bit less for granted.

I want to be wilder. Freer. More courageous and trusting and playful and bold. Please help me, Father. 

The Munchies, September 16 2018

I'm feeling flighty, have "the munchies" in general.
Thank You for giving me hope, and satisfying me even when I'm belligerent and picky and pouty. You are my satisfaction, and I believe it even though I don't always feel it.


Yellow Jacket, September 14 2018

I woke up early, went outside briefly. And I just had this nightmarish experience of a buzzing fly in my sleeve. I started to carefully unbutton the sleeve to free it, only to see it escape along my arm - a yellow jacket - and go buzzing around my room. I must have picked it up by the flowers outside, an hour ago?! It's truly amazing it didn't sting me.

Later
I found the yellow jacket on my window. I spent rather a long time trying to coach it outside. It was a weary little thing. I felt an obligation to it, though I also noted a callous urge in my impatience, to squash it and have done. But I made a tenuous, sort of sacred decision to be gentle. To save it. To wait a bit while it preened and adjusted itself. Finally I trapped it on the outside of the glass, on the screen just above the opening. I left it to find its way.


He Had No Beauty, September 13, 2018

Thanks for feeding me. Please help me to enjoy this life, and to be effervescently in love with You. To do the hard work of seeking and waiting and obeying, so that I really know You, really love You.

YOUR EYES ARE LIKE DOVES
YOUR MOUTH IS SWEETNESS ITSELF
HE HAD NO BEAUTY


Bright and Salty, September 21, 2018

I'm not good at knowing right and wrong, in myself. I need Your help, Your love, Your wisdom. I need to not be afraid. Maybe not watch the pole dancing, yes, but not ignore the brokenness of the world.

I care SO MUCH about what people think of me. Whether or not I'm seen as kind and intelligent and accepting and loving. Please help me be bright and salty. Don't let me water You down one ounce. Give me Yourself - neat.

Of course You will keep asking me to enter messy life - why does that surprise me? Please help me to learn to walk with You in peace and holiness. Thank You for caring so tenderly about everything You've made. Please show mercy.

Out of Place, September 10 2018

It did make my hackles rise to hear terms like "comfort zone", "box", and "personal" used to describe my art and life, but I think I was able to acknowledge and respond, and to let You remind me who I am.

This place isn't designed for artists. These values are different from mine. Help me keep working to redeem, preserve, revitalize, transform. Do that through me; I can't do it.


The Twelfth Pair of Oxen, September 10 2018

What was Elisha doing, before You called him? Before Elijah threw his cloak around him? Prepare me. I want to be ready. Plowing with the twelfth pair of oxen. Help me to be faithful in small things. 

Alexandria, September 9 2018

A GPS is a wonderful thing. And You are superior.
I'm here in Alexandria, in the office. Perhaps where I stayed all those years ago, and was troubled that C came in unannounced in the morning. It was his office, after all, and he needed things. I was horrified.

This is definitely a bachelor pad. No curtain in the bathroom. No soap at the sink. No dish drainer. And the spaghetti squash has been sitting on the counter since April. But J is a good host. He came out to meet me and parked my car for me. We made chicken and lentil pasta (edible). I made us tea and we watched "The Informant!", and I gave him a back massage. He's taking me to work with him tomorrow. He told me he is proposing to A this Thursday.
They're talking now. 

What I'm Standing On, August 31, 2018

Thanks for the times that You let my world shake and remind me what I'm standing on.


Covet Those Trees, August 29 2018

Thank You for the sweet, smokey, muggy familiarity of the yard at night.
I loved standing in the front lawn, facing the street, because the neighbors' maples felt personable and connected, and in the darkness I didn't feel exposed by the road. I do covet those trees a little.
But there they are, and I get to enjoy them. 

I Can Run and Run and Not Outrun You, August 29 2018

PAINT IS NOT THE END
PHILOSOPHERS LEAVE THEIR PENS
AND I MY BRUSHES

I am having an Artist Date Day. I thought I should write a haiku. I looked for something ordinary to inspire me, and saw the word "paint" on the blackboard.

I have been reading a lot of Guernsey today, fit to finish it. I like it, though the movie was a little more innocent, I think. Juliet was a little less Harriet Vane.
But I like Harriet Vane. And I like this book.

One thing it is bringing to mind is how different and interesting people are, and how it is possible and necessary to love them. I think I am still Pharisaical, and also afraid not to be, because I forget, Jesus, that You were not. And I want You most. Please help me. Because I know You call me to holiness and obedience, and not therapeutic deism.
Show me who You are, don't let me make You in my image. Thank You for being big enough to handle all of this, and everything, ever. I can run and run and not outrun You.


Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Attachment, August 28 2018

Mom bought a bear for M's baby today. It made me think how children form bonds so naturally, attach, and count things precious.
I remember what life was like. I was always ready to be smitten. Ready to love anything beautiful, or helpless or interesting (even if it was ugly).

I've been considering my self-protectiveness, its survival value as well as its tendency to selfishness and rot. I form my attachments much more carefully now, but any attachment is a risk. And I feel that.
And sometimes I forget that it is worth the risk.

Monday, August 27, 2018

Deliver Myself to Each Day, August 27 2018

I keep wishing for some kind of revelation, but I think I just need to pray. I want to see God work. I don't want the incessant influx of blessings and tragedies. I want Jesus. I want to eat Him. I want to understand.

The retro rock today (Sixpence, Mew, A-ha) stirred up tangy memories. I need to remember to be young and yearning again. To deliver myself to each day.

Sunday, August 26, 2018

Necco Wafer

It was one big Necco wafer. Bright and sugary and somehow unpleasant.
Stale. It sticks in the crevices of your molars. Actually bad for you, if "harmless" in small amounts.

Is there something American in me that wants to admire Harold Hill?
I guess I'm not American enough.

I will eat a Necco wafer now and then, and remind myself I don't like them. 

Passionate, Loving Portraits / August 23 2018

I finished re-reading "The Brothers Karamazov" this afternoon, which was an excellent muse for painting. There's a lot of love in it.

I realized today that painting passionate, loving portraits is like driving. The best way to serve the people is the lose yourself in the work, in the practice of painting, not analyzing all your moods and thoughts, or addressing the models directly. As with driving. If you start thinking about and noticing all the other drivers, contemplating their separate lives and journeys, you'll be a distracted driver, and more likely to get in an ACCIDENT and actually hurt people. At the same time, being a safe and courteous driver depends on knowing in the back of your mind that all these other vehicles contain human beings.
It's a strange sort of suspension.
Become a good driver.
Become a good painter.
That is the way to love people. Trust the Holy Spirit. Paint the little blue shadows around the eyes, the reflection on the nostril. Pay attention.

I think back to the story B told me about T observing his head of Christ, and being moved and asking,
"What went through your mind as you painted this?"
B understood the question but replied,
"I should put this green stroke right here..."
"No," his guest persisted, "I mean, what was your spiritual state?"
B explained that the painting process was not about a heightened spiritual or emotional experience. Those things came through the work because they were behind it, part of him, but he painted it as a painter, faithful to his work.

God, please make me faithful.


Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Relief, August 15 2018

And suddenly he turned a corner -
the grinding motor of the lawn mower hushed
into
the ticking clock
the beat of blood under the cupped hand at my temple
steady and persistent
as a broom brushed against a floor.
Relief
unexpected
and complete.

Healing can come like this.
Assenting, now,
today
or in a year
you will wake up aware
that you have finally forgiven.

And you can sweep the crumbs
from under the table
feeling that your heart is beating
in time and eternally. 

Sunday, August 12, 2018

Loving Alyosha, August 9 2018

Today I finished "A Book for Hearts and Minds" and continued re-reading "The Brothers Karamazov". I love Alyosha with a passion. The interactions between him and Kolya make me want to cry with joy. O Christ.
The lovely thing about loving him is that anything false or egotistical in that love slips and is exposed and is warmly forgiven, and laughed at.
Yes, you could read that as "loving Alyosha" or "loving Christ", because they are very much of the same nature.
Remind me that love is actually freedom.
I want to see You whole, and to be unafraid. 

Sunday, July 29, 2018

Molecule, July 3

I like the sound of the word molecule. It makes me think of a clear drop of water on a clean slip of glass. Of something speculative, and mollified.

Of something shining on the fingernails. A manicure. Of crystalline K'nex in pure white space, like an ad for prescription medication.

To "molecule" (v) is the opposite of to "ridicule". It is therefore the word of scientists and pacifists. It is the word of those who have seen, and wondered, and given "due regard".



"Due regard" cf. Richard Wilbur, "The Eye" 

POTUS, June 28

I watched a video of T this evening, an old interview with Rona Barrett.
He was 34 then. And comparatively palatable, his speech vague but giving the impression of reasonableness, because he spoke quietly and methodically, more like Mister Rogers than a dictator. He didn't sound bitter yet, like a harassed housewife. He purred along with comments about the need for America to be respected and influential, about men greater than himself, about political office in the modern era, about Iran. He used the word "abeyance". He seemed shrewd, in his own way. Certainly Ms. Barrett showed him deference. He had a little glow of mystique. I thought about Mr. Darcy, and his wealth making him attractive. At any rate, he didn't come across as a "buffoon" - a word the Brits used to describe and dismiss him two years ago, when he was not considered a serious candidate.
Lord, please help me work through all my feelings toward this man.


Friday, July 20, 2018

My Native Hill, June 22 2018

Thank You, dear Lord Jesus. Thank You for this loneliness, which is also awakening deeper parts of my mind & heart & soul. I've just been crying, reading Wendell Berry, "A Native Hill". I resonate with so much in it.

Why do we have a love of place? Why do I have a love of place, more than almost anyone I know? I still dream in Florida, among the bushes and branches. And here, tonight, I went outside as night was falling and was so captivated I couldn't resolve to go back inside. I went in and out several times.
Outside was alive.

Opening and closing the door was as abrupt a difference as the opening and closing of a singing birthday card.

Fireflies were everywhere. Green, yellow, orange. Wind was ruffling the thick, burgeoning leaves, with such a beguiling susurration. A tender, cool, delicious mist of rain was falling, making every exposed part of skin chill and tingle. It was pure sensuous pleasure.

I turned off the deck light and danced, swaying, then turning. Finally it was dark enough that I lifted my arms to spin, and to waltz largely. The damp cool air billowed up my dress and made dewy ringlets of my face-framing hair. I had eaten strawberries and cherries from C, so that sweet tang was still on my tongue.

The treetops kept swaying and speaking, a sad and sweet communion. Being there,  feeling Your world, and belonging somehow to it, in it, with it to You - was a kind of sex. Probably better than sex.
Sometimes I think You have spoiled me for romance, because You are so incomparably good at making love to me.

Saturday, July 7, 2018

Ekphrases on an Iron

September 14 2015 
(blind drawing)

11:30-11:35

The Iron is iron, for once.
Cast iron, a bit pocked and
slightly rusty, but shiny at the handle,
and on the bottom (except for a
rash of rust).
It's only 5 inches tall,
and the handle juts out another
3 or so, thickening for grasping, with
criss-cross pattern. There are 2 holes on the inner side.
The handle is split where it joins the
iron, at the bottom.
The handle curves elegantly.



September 15 2015
(blind drawing)

11:39-11:44

Two spots like lichen.
That tantalizing gap
between handle and base.
A raised "7".
This new angle is amazing.
I didn't see the crosshatching yesterday.
The pock marks are beautiful,
crusty, like whole wheat bread.
The handle is black and shiny
as a beetle's back.
Funny how boat-like the shape is.
And how inhuman. There is almost
nothing that makes me think of a body.
Only the body implied by what this is:
a tool, man-made, for Man.



September 16 2015


11:34-11:40

There it is.
That face like a tribal mask,
only a cyclops, drinking with
puckered lips from a bendy straw - 
out of his single eyeball.

This angle reminds me of a stethoscope,
and a door handle, 
and the heavy ring-handles
of our roasting pans at Camp.
But now that there is a face,
finally, these things seem less
important.

Whatever he is staring into, that
black hole in the neck and navel
of a seahorse,
it must be enthralling.
"Drink my tail.
I'll kiss your eye" -
some frightening seduction like that.
Like saltwater taffy, Karl Marx,
Andy Warhol.



11:40 - 11:53

cyclops
stethoscope
sea horse
Andy Warhol

If you look with one eye,
everything is flat
and things far away are more
apparently related to the forefront,
though not in proper
relation.

This kind of seeing
allows us clarity of a kind,
for a short while 
we believe our illusions.

Old wounds, deeply
embedded and/or drifting loosely
(like feathers in air
or delicate fish in deep water)
may become sharp and publicized,
as offensive and vulnerable
as Warhol,
only, monstrous and unnecessary
to others intentionally winking.


September 17 2015



11:51 - 11:57

Flower press
Book weight
Sandwich (panini) maker
Musty wooden rooms, 
arranged as they would have been
back then,
with plastic apples and ears of corn,
a broom, kettle, checkered apron,
and iron.
Boat more like an anchor
Sail more like a skewered 
bratwurst.
You could scuff across starched
clean shirts,
or be a murder weapon.
So quaint and 
deadly.
Doorstop.
Full stop. 



September 18 2015


11:07-11:12

What kind of iron did they use in the 1950s?
Because I keep thinking back that far,
no farther. But I'm pretty sure this
could have been 1910, or even 1892.
The "7" is a bit suspicious, though.
It feels modern. (So modern, ha!)

I love cast iron. Cast iron pans 
are the best. The other day I 
used 3 cast iron pans to make 
lunch: omelets, sweet potato fries,
and a quick sauté of onions &
peppers (for the omelets).

There's something so comforting 
about cast iron. But it's meant
to be USED, and so this almost
purely decorative antique piece 
seems weird to me. 






Sunday, June 10, 2018

What You Do for Me, June 3 2018

I left just in time. The drive was very smooth, though I was in strange headspaces a few times: out of it, or dreaming, or suddenly hyper-aware and sweaty. But I drove well.

I took the Merritt Parkway. At one point the surging trees, tousled by the wind, looked like seaweed rolling underwater.
It was a beautiful, Princess Mononoke-esque sensation.

I saw a dead deer that look for a second like a tiger, the cuts in its flesh were so dark against its golden brown hide. I saw a wild turkey stalking in the grass by the road, and mistook it momentarily for a vulture. I saw a dead little rabbit and thought it looked like a fennec fox.

Don't let me mistake You.
I am amazed, God, at what You do for me. The walls are coming down. Thank You for giving me what I needed, including faith and peace. And so very few regrets. Because of Your grace. And because I am choosing again to live in love.


Festooned with Flowers, June 2 2018

I am in a home
I am in a room that glows
festooned with flowers

I am in a room
I am in a bridal bed
festooned with flowers


Another Plentid Day, May 23 2018

I am content.
This is a good day to be alive, and growing, and hearing Your voice. Keep speaking to me. Give me love. Give me wisdom and self-control.

I finally went back to prayer meeting this morning, and walked afterward. I wrote cards for all the transitioning YA Advisors. I cried over my salad of tender greens from the garden (spinach, red lettuce, chard, basil and parsley, sharp garlicky Welsh cheddar and black olives). I used the rest of the peel-off mask, and read Sayers. I talked with A, and briefly with C - it's a boy!

I went to the Rs, where I had dessert and enjoyed a slideshow, and talked for a long while afterward. 

The Maples Could Make You Cry, May 7 2018

The maples could make you cry. I'm serious. I've been struck with the pain of beauty so many times in the last couple of days, while driving. Want so much to stop and absorb it. To paint it, bathe in it, inhale it, eat it. You probably have to feel it from inside a tree. Up in the branches, at least. Feeling it sway and watching the whole, tented, verdant leaves scintillate in the sunshine.

Leaves at this time of year are amazing. They're pristine, nourished, pungent. Their youthful translucence is deepening into something rich and virile.
I'm using all these words because I haven't found the right one. And because this is all about profusion, fecundity, extravagance.
Juice. Verve. Drive. 

The Moon, April 24 2018

The moon on the drive back was so perfect, big, bright, utterly distracting.
Made you want to pull over, get out of the car, and pursue it across the fields. 

Poetry, April 25 2018

Words and rhythms, poetry, have crawled into me. Now I want to read poetry in the park, on a checkered tablecloth. I want to see my friends silent, picking at grass, sun on their arms and hair. And to be silent, and pick at grass, and hear their voices.

I miss that. Five years ago we read poetry on the quad day after day after day. And it wasn't my idea, but I was the most faithful.

I've let myself drift away. Keep on loving, let yourself be known. 

Do Not Awaken, April 24 2018

I feel disinclined to make drama.
Funny to feel that I might be too old and boring, for once. Not for once. I meant in this circumstance. I'm really, really glad that I can let You put me to sleep, and open my eyes to what (and who) You want: I want to want what You want.

I want You. I feel like journalling a prayer for him here, but I also feel like that would be superstitious and juvenile. And I'm tired. So goodnight. 

Perfume Everything, April 20 2018

Jesus, permeate my room. Perfume everything. I want You to reek in every picture, pencil, sweater, book. I want everything I have to declare You as Lord. Everything to have something real, wholly thingy, and unmistakably devoted about it. Let nothing be out of place. Let everything be holy. If I can give it all away, piecemeal, let it carry You like seeds on the wind. Keep declaring Your lordship over all of creation.

It felt so good to crouch barefoot in the cold, damp earth this morning. It WAS cold. My toes went numb. And the wind was raw, but the sun (when it appeared) was ameliorating. I planted cilantro, red lettuce, and chard. Next to the basil. It was a really remarkably good day. 

Raise Lazarus, April 18 2018

How do you acknowledge that someone is too much for you, without thereby making them into a burden?

Fortify my heart, as more and more I see our abject neediness, as humans.
No one is strong.
I can never depend on anyone for my spiritual security. Which is good, if I realize it in time: I can look at You. Really at You. Please help me do that. Please protect me only as much as is good for You.

Can I have faith that You are big enough to raise Lazarus? 

Tryst, April 15 2018

Help me tryst with You in these few stolen minutes, while I wait for them to respond.

Today was wonderful, sleeping in and missing church and feeling that it was from You. It's abruptly chilly again, and wet. But I went out on the back deck this afternoon, and flung open my arms. I sang, "The World! The Moon! The Sun!" and a raven began cawing just as I stared to sing "Caw! Caw! Caw!"
You're such fun.

I want to talk about the things I really care about. What do I want? I want You. More than anything. Heaven is empty without You, and earth is ash. But You charge everything with meaning. Please bring us back.

Remind me that there is hope. Please keep providing for me. Give me what You know I need to live, to be generous, to sow. To travel. To keep painting and doing whatever You want me to do. Please help me to love others. Show me how to bring You my heart, so that I'm not so protective of it, so afraid, exhausted. There will be enough. Help me to trust Your abundance.

Please prepare me for sacrifice. Please prepare me for commitment, trust, joy. Keep me receptive. Give me wisdom. 

Sunday, April 15, 2018

Garden Day, April 13 2018

This was a rare day. It was finally, really warm. And I decided it was time to shave. It had been 4 1/2 months. I wish body hair was as optional for women as facial hair is for men. It would make a lot more sense.

I just broke off a piece of aloe from the plant beside my bed and applied the gel to my neck and cheeks, where the sun got a little too friendly today. I was GARDENING. Finally! But in the morning I visited S&R, and read lots of board books and watched a film. I had lunch here alone, ate up leftovers, savoring the last salty bits of tortilla chips on the back deck, in the sun.

I washed my sheets, vacuumed, cleaned the bathroom, gardened. Gardened! Glory. Planted my little spinach babies, and seeded some flowers. I showered, made cornbread, went to the forum downtown. It was good, especially because I talked with C afterward, and K came, and I drove her back with me.
Thanks for being so good and so patient with me.



The Greenest Grass, April 4, 2018

The bitter voice inside me wants me to list all my grievances and limitations, and stew on them. Or let them fuel me, like anger is fuel. But anger is not the best fuel. Nor is ambition, covetousness. "If you run away, you can eat potato chips and have Barbie dolls..."
It's the same old story of the greenest grass.

The place to work things out is here, now. With grace and gratitude. But that is impossible without You. Jesus Christ, Lord, save me. Save me from my sin and my stupidity. Deliver me from evil. I choose to obey You. 

God Who Got Your Hands Dirty, March 24 2018

I'm at the Cove - the COVE! And relishing it.
I would be relishing it more, but have just thrown up my supper in the toilet, and am still feeling nauseous. I'm afraid even fresh haddock isn't going to work for me. I look rather peeled. Scraped. Shucked. Anyway.
What a beautiful thing proper digestion is. Chesterton was right.

Man, there is so much going on in our world and country right now. The March for Our Lives campaign, for instance. And I feel stuck there. Because I truly think we need to reform our gun laws, but I know it's a complex issue. And I have friends on both sides. What is really going to prevent those intent on evil from procuring means to their ends? Not much. Thankfully, these things go both ways. What can stop the person who is doing your will? If God is for us, who can be against us?

Father, please calm me tonight. Please fill this house with Your peace. Please show me Your love even in my blood and vomit. You are the God Who Got Your Hands Dirty.

From silken self, O Captain, free
Thy soldier who would follow Thee.

- Amy Carmichael 


Wednesday, April 11, 2018

About Wonder, March 21 2018

I'm thankful for these Artist Date days, but I struggle with them, too. For various reasons. For one thing, I can start to think that it's all about self-love, which drifts into selfishness and navel-gazing and feeling dead-ended and rotten.

It's supposed to be about wonder. About looking outside myself, to my creative Creator. To my Lover. Yes, to enjoy, and to delight the senses. But not to wrap myself up in myself. Some self-examination is good, but let it be straightforward, and move on.

I'm having a hard time seeing either tree or forest. I don't think I've done even many small things with great love. Weak lust, perhaps. Or duty. Or moderate inclination. I need Your help.

"Mine, O thou Lord of life, send my roots rain."



Quote: Gerard Manley Hopkins

Selfish Shelter, March 14 2018

I've been angry - ever since I was a kid - at women who selfishly ask to be sheltered, rather than believing in something better than safety: honor and courage and the right.

Women who stand back trembling while their men do the work.

Yes, I want to be spared, but no, I don't want to be spared. And I'd like to avoid making enemies, but I don't know how that's possible.

How can I be teachable? Humble, but bold in conviction? I'm coming to You because I still believe You care, You are listening, You love me and will answer. I still trust You. And I think that refusing to make peace with sin and injustice and depravity is a way of honoring You, even if seeing these things makes me want to blame You. Don't let me be deceived. Open my eyes. Set me before the essentials. Help me to love, and to keep myself open to love, and to be patient. And fight. Please keep fighting for me. Strip me of everything if You need to, because I'm foremost Yours. "This is one battle I can fight naked."
Clothed by You.



Quote: Dorothy Sayers, "Busman's Honeymoon"

The Procession of Fantastic Wealth, March 14 2018

But it's not a reason to brag. It's all grace. I have received so much in my life that I didn't deserve, by a long shot. I'm remembering the generosity of A's Indiana cousins. How they gave us a bag of road snacks so varied and excellent as to reach almost Biblical proportions. Dates, raisins, new wine, 500 goats, 200 sheep, 50 cows, 10 bulls, fine spices, and gold of Ophir... you get the idea. Where eventually it ceases to feel real, and you're watching the procession of fantastic wealth enter your ranks as if in a dream.
God, please fill my open mouth.

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

Gaudy Night, March 1 2018

It's raining again. A good, comforting rain. I hula-hooped today, but wasn't outside much. It was a studio day. I also finished Gaudy Night, my favorite Sayers yet. It stirred me, made me think and feel necessary things, made me laugh repeatedly. And when I finished, I wept. Quiet, violent crying that left a deep-blue stain on a medium-blue patch of my quilt.

I don't know if I've ever really cried as an adult, because I usually think about how I look, or how to describe it. If I were really to cry, would I care? The emotion can't be too severe if you're thinking about how picturesque (or otherwise) it is.

At any rate, I was crying because Peter and Harriet were together. And because of how it happened. And because they struggled through so much, necessarily, and chose the hard way. Because that book speaks so much about passion and integrity and devotion to one's work, of loyalty to vocations, principles, and yet the messiness of emotion and human responsibility. There are so many sharp and poignant (and witty) lines. And it has so much to say about the sexes, and intellectualism, and courtesy. It is a gem.
That was partly why I was crying. I was crying because I got to read it, because I've had the privilege of so much, and am still selfish and feel stuck. Others are living and dying around me, and our souls are lonely, and GOD how do we reconcile that? And hell? Miserable lives or insulated easy beautiful lives, and then what?

I had to start thinking about the cross, because I was starting to view You as a cruel judge. And I thought of the flight to Egypt. You are not cold toward us.
I have to believe 1) that all these supernumerary ways You speak to me and make love to me are REAL and 2) that I can trust You to do the same for others. It is not my job to save, or to know everything. Or to make other people's decisions for them. It's certain that 3) I will move people toward You if I'm delighting in You myself. So that is a first necessity. Passion and joy. Don't let me commit the sin of indigence. Boredom. Duty and bitterness. 

Marching Orders, Feb 28 2018

I've been feeling strange, because I've been in my room so much of the day, and because I'm jolly over "Gaudy Night" and the progress with the album, and because February is ending and March beginning, and I feel sad.

I think maybe I could have used another two weeks of barren winter in which to hermit, safely. March feels like orders. Like a push off the dock.
I'll be all the better for it.

I haven't caught my breath, but I'll keep breathing, and try to steady the rate.
Help.
It is a powerful word.

Every Single Day II, Feb 26 2018

Talking with B was good and challenging. How do we pray for big things, believing? If God doesn't actually say yes? How do we know His will?
Prayer can change things, but it also changes us, and it honors God.

But what if we're "single" "forever"? Will we be able to be truly content? Not pretending, deluding ourselves? Yes. It's possible. I believe it. But, as I told B tonight, I deeply don't believe I'll be single forever. I think I go in a few layers: the outer layer is single and lives that way. One layer below believes I'll be married. Beneath that, I have this terrible, "WILL I THOUGH?", and deeper still, "Yes."
If I forget the yes at the core, I'll begin to think that the "no" is the deepest and truest, the reality I just haven't accepted yet. But I don't believe it is.

I want to believe that I'll be a good wife. That I'll fight well, cleanly and fairly. That I'll be a good listener and snuggler. That I'll make him laugh, and calm him down, and excite him. That I'll keep his trust, and that I'll amaze him. That he'll feel safe with me, and be able to let me go. That he'll both share suffering with me, and allow me to have my own. That I'll feed him well, and that we'll match each other well in wits & sports & lovemaking. I want to believe that that I'll be a good Mom. That I'll attend well to my kids, sacrifice gladly, yet hold boundaries, discipline consistently, show grace. That I'll have a touch that is natural, safe, and comforting. That I'll be an enthralling storyteller. That I'll be shrewd & sensitive & funny, that I'll give wise counsel, that I'll be courageous and instill confidence and compassion in them. That I'll make them feel safe, and that through me they'll know the love of God. That I'll show them how to love life, love learning, love those different from themselves, stand up for truth and justice. That I'll be an example to them of hard work done with joy, and play that is generative and full of wonder. That I'll teach them to be nurturers, to rest, to listen. 

Conflict Resolution, Feb 25 2018

We took a baby step in a good direction tonight.
God, help me not check out. Help me instead to pray, listen, engage, LIVE now. Because this is my life. It's all I've got. And these things now are preparing me for the future.

Help me to see it all that way. And not for the earthly wedding; for my union with You. I want completion. Or, at least, to see things fitting into place, connecting, leading toward something. I've seen it before so many times. But I need to keep seeing it, or I may desecrate the past and curse the future because of my own blindness. Keep my heart's affections where they belong. Keep me loving people not so as to control them, but to see them whole.

To see them whole.

I like that, because it means at least two things: to actively seek their welfare, and to behold them truly.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

This Day is Not Wasted, January 19 2018

This day is not wasted if I come to You. It feel flat, unproductive, guilty.

Show me how to think about it. Is repentance called for? Always. Here I am wanting thrills, and You want to hold my hand. You want communion. You want obedience and praise, not fireworks. Help me celebrate and name what I can. Help me change, and become compassionate. Become open and receptive, a child, as I once imperfectly was.

"Everything comes close, nothing comes in". I feel that again. Let something small and true come in. Something that will take root. Give me Your words, and I will eat them. They will taste like honey, like something made with olive oil, like the finest of wheat. Help me, because I am afraid of not finding them enough. "Jump, and the net will appear."

Guard my susceptible mind tonight. Thank You. Thank You for giving me a soul that hurts, that isn't quite dead yet. Tell me a new story about my life. There will not be a whimpering end. You are not finished. 

Let the Blessing Remain, February 22, 2018

Let the blessing remain. Let God Himself persist in loving me, blessing me, and telling me who I am. May I hear and listen and believe Him.
And love Him by living. 

Open Windows and Pancakes, February 21, 2018

Probably the highlight of the day was reading Gaudy Night on the back deck. In the sun. I'm a little sunkissed, and I love it.
The clouds have rolled in, and we're supposed to have rain for the next 4 days. I decided NOT to "take advantage" of the good weather for my projects, but rather for mind & body & soul.

Lying on the deck, my legs propped against the rail and pants rolled to the knees, feeling the fresh air blowing through the unshaved fuzz, and stretching my arms, I felt alive and lovely and wild as I haven't in a long while.

I helped Mom out, here and there. Wrote letters. And made myself pancakes from Dad's spiced whole wheat waffle recipe. This should be remembered: the fresh, sweet air in our house today, from open windows and pancakes. 

The Slow Death of the Close-Fisted, February 11, 2018

Blessed Quinquagesima. The last Sunday before Lent. Ash Wednesday on Valentine's Day, wot!

I don't know if I'm really ready to face the changes of responsibility to another person. I'm lonely, but I'm afraid of closeness, too.
I'm afraid, but I'm not going to hide, I've decided. I'm not ready to die the slow death of the close-fisted.


The Oddest Hours, 4:13 AM, February 10 2018

They've struck again: the Oddest Hours. Only I didn't sleep yet. Been far too nervy and crowded in mind. A little while ago I resolved to take a Mental Health Day tomorrow, so I've cancelled all my appointments. That feels better than I expected. Like the relief of throwing up when you're nauseous.

But I'm still lying here, hyper-nerved and weary and very very awake. I had less than half a mug of caffeinated coffee, and that was about 12 hours ago. I don't know... except I DO know that I've been trying to do too much. Here I was boasting about everything I crammed into the day... I crammed myself out. I'm rebelling against myself. My eyes are bigger than my heart, or my mind than my body, or something. My calendar is bigger than my soul. I don't want to be so uptight, rushed, tired. I need to paint. I need to sleep. My skin shows it. I need quiet muddling, moodling time. I need to be able to write music, to hear things bump around in my head. This is why I need a very patient husband, or to be single always. I am a bird alone on a roof, and there are no shortcuts.
A plaque in the restroom at the coffee shop said,

"Don't try to rush things that take time to grow."

And I was held quiet - for a moment.
Apparently, I haven't learned that lesson yet.

I've just been eating seed crackers and drinking milk, and saying to myself, "The body of Christ, broken for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you." Was reading verses in 1 John that I forgot were so roilingly good. 

Trust, Again, January 27 2018

It's strange to be here, at this time, in this place. Having talked about a lot of my favorite films. But it feels too exposed, and insufficient.

This is not who I am - or all I am, at any rate. And I'm not good at knowing who to trust. Or how far to trust people. But I trust You, Jesus. I do without trying, I can't help it. And when I don't, I want to. You are the foundation of my life, and I'm thankful for that when my convictions scatter, and when pretty answers are flimsy. You are true, and I don't need to be afraid. Help me to trust You for the whole package. Full knowing, full delight, full life, in You. 

A Weird Dream

I had a weird dream. Trying to find Water Street Mission was part of it, but the weird part was about watching a movie in a bar. It was getting a little too racy, and the preteen boy needed to be told not to look up the sequel later (though I think he did anyway).

The bearded princess and the dragon went too far. But it didn't work out for them. That is, I didn't finish watching the sequel, but they were definitely estranged and damaged by their poor choices. They both looked like Indian men, but the princess had a gorgeous silk gown, and was mooning in a hothouse in downtown Lancaster. 

The Monday Sin

God, don't let me commit the Monday sin of taking the world on my shoulders. Help me to trust You to fight for me. 

Codependency, January 16, 2018

The focus stayed on me a little too long, but it was OK. At least, in that group, there's room to be a little ridiculous and needy and self-absorbed, and be loved anyway. Help me to be that way for others.
It scares me to see and feel this whole "burn-out" friendship thing - CAN we "burn through" each other? What does that say about our friendships and commitments? There's codependency and there's codependency. We need each other. We really do. And if we don't choose to stick it out this time, will we ever?

The going WILL get rough if you're going long enough. But God, how does abuse ever heal? How do we keep going after hurt? What does it look like for brokenness to be redeemed? What is our job, what is Yours? I still stubbornly want rules that apply across the board. No exceptions.

Is there any way to save a friendship after you've said, "You're too much for me, I can't handle you"? It's like our worst fears realized. Like a shaking of the bedrock. It's deep betrayal; you can forgive, I presume, but you can't forget. Remembering and dealing with it becomes a new element of the relationship, interminably. So it seems to me.

God, gracious God, please protect me from breaking what is trusting and sensitive and tender. Make me able to love unconditionally.


Sunday, February 25, 2018

What do the birds know that I don't?

This morning I awoke
without the hangover from dancing I expected,
and before the alarm, to birdsong.

A mourning dove was calling
a major song in minor key,
and sparrows littered the air
as they litter a city.

In the afternoon
I passed a murmuration on Gap Hill,
starlings in an undulating ribbon, seeming to hover
and tapering to a point, turning south.

It's been two years
since I fed birds at my window,
and still I hear the scratch
of feet on the screen, chickadees
who remember. 

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Between Me and the Moon

Some nights when I pull in the driveway,
and the stars are clear, and the moon is cresting
above the neighbors' pines,
I'll stop the car,
turn off the engine and open
the driver's seat door
to sudden quiet.        I'll stand
erect and still, and see the sky with nothing in between.

I'll soak it in: that there is nothing but air between us.
I take a fierce, rebellious pleasure in this. That even after
all our careful planning, politics and systems,
they haven't put anything between me and the moon.
There is nothing to separate us but miles
of naked space.

Courtyard

In our Italian palazzo, there was a room,
a living room,
lit by the sun,
the others opened onto.

In this room, if you entered, cats might pass,
or visitors from the street. Neighbors, historians,
tri-lingual gypsies. Air and sound
flowed through it.
Insects, bees, and birds.

It rained, and came down
on the living ground,
on the clover
and on the stones,
on the potted plants, and the fountain
full of earth and flowers.

It came down on the pale pink roses, climbing up the wall.
And on the birds-of-paradise.

I wish
my house had a room like that.
My room has light, and books, and a red blanket,
but the flowers on the hook
are dry. I don't like strangers.

And from my bed,
I cannot see the sky. 

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Unflappable God, December 28

I myself am feeling strangely vulnerable right now. I always seem to be shaken by unbelievers - if they're not outright antagonistic or selfish, which makes their mistakenness obvious.
But I am shaken by people who feel relatable, who are like me, but come to a different conclusion.
Why me? Why not them? Why me at all? Do I want the narrow way?
I want the right way. And I want everyone with me. I'm not as brave or as loving as Paul; I don't think I'd take hell for anything or anyone. I mean, I'd take hell: neatly off the list of options.
I understand You so little. I don't know how to trust You and not let part of me - what feels like ME - be macerated. Or is it You inside of me telling me I've simply got You wrong? That I have to let my cheap idea of You die, to know You and see You and love You as You are?
I won't believe because I "should". I'll believe because of You. So show me.
You are big enough. The God I know, that I've loved and lived for, isn't stumped by anything. Is patient. Is kind beyond expectation. Is firm and unflappable and irritatingly (relievingly?) observant. I can't kill You.


To Want and to Work For, December 24

Please stir up our longing for You, the longing that can't be satisfied by food & drink & laughter.

Forgive me for my hard-heartedness, my fear of man, my pride.
Please take me in hand tonight.
And tomorrow, please help me to be a blessing. That is, to see and respond to those around me. To want and to work for their welfare. 

Sunday, January 7, 2018

Under the Tree, December 23

It does feel like the end of something. The beginning of something, too, I guess. Being adults. Not having everyone home for Christmas. But it's so good to have J home.

Please help me know how to love well. Give me new oceans of hesed.
I feel pretty dried-up and brittle. I need reminders, I need hope. I need faith, and I can't see. And I forget that some (all?) of the best parts of my life were courage and faith and trust in the midst of the unknown. Help me to enjoy the journey. And please bring me forward (I would say back) to a place of confidence, of being excited about You, swept up in You.
Going to go sleep under the tree. 

Turn Around and Love, December 10

These cynic songs are coming to me pretty easily. But they're also helpful - showing me what I'm not. Help me see the holes in cynicism.

Recorded music here at home, "What Your Heart is For" and "And Now This". Planned with Mom and Dad. Watched, "My Santa", a vapid B-grade on Netflix. We were going for entertaining, and at least it was laughable. My favorite scenes were the string beans steaming and Chris putting his costume away in the trunk.

I'm so glad You are not a sinner like the rest of us. That I can turn from trying to please all these froward humans and come to You. But I'm also afraid of You, because of Your power to judge, and because You will undoubtedly tell me to turn around and love... humans, again.
Messy miserable humans.
I don't understand much. Have mercy on me. Protect my spirit. Purify me. Make me brave, and whole-hearted. And self-forgetful. 

Missed Some Boat, December 7

Reading K's letter and talking with A today were strong, sharp reminders of Your activity. Of Your power to move and draw people to Yourself, and to actually change things. Actually.
Convince me of this, when I suddenly feel tired and used up, and like I missed some boat. Nope.

I need Your help not to be so bitter and angry. About my circumstances. About the fallibility and mortality of everyone I love. Of the failure of everything to satisfy me. But You. You do. But I'm still afraid of You, and mistrustful. Wear down my guard, please, and make me brave.


Zion for Whom No One Cares, December 4

I'm back home after NYC. Finished re-reading "Silence" on the ride home, and had to restrain myself from weeping in 30th Street Station.
There's a lot to write. But there's something on my mind:
Jeremiah 30:17.
"...Because you are called an outcast, Zion for whom no one cares."
I remember reading this freshman year, after eating dinner with Zion after NT class. He was the sort that gets ostracized. He was telling me strange things about the spiritual significance of triangles, and I seem to remember some boastful/ambitious talk that left me perplexed. I didn't know how to respond to him. I was both stung with compassion and repulsed. He didn't stay long. I don't even know his last name. But I can still see his topknot and startling face; pulpy, with red-rimmed eyes. 

Malleable World, November 28

Tell me all the things I need to know.
I need to trust You, for NYC tomorrow, and so much else. Help me to believe Your many promises.
A. made some comment before we hung up, about how I would be fine tomorrow, You would take care of me. Just hearing that was immensely heartening. Like R. telling me I'd be a good driver.
Not, "I think you will"; "you will".

My faith is so small. I also hesitate from making claims I can't guarantee, or that might really shake me if they didn't come to pass. But remind me what kind of God You are. Give me Yourself. That's what I really want, anyway. To give You all of me, and have You. To begin to see the world...not as safe, exactly, but as malleable. As responsive to You. To really have hope.
Do many miracles because of our faith.


Tugging the Rug, November 27

You must be kind and powerful, because I don't have hiccups right now. All the cases I've ever had have ended. You must have a sense of humor, because hiccups exist.
You can humble the proud with hiccups, indigestion, and diarrhea. It is easy to feel strong, reasonable, and controlled in good health, in the daylight. But You expose our facade of control so easily, as You do with the weather.
We are too impressed with ourselves and our "independence". Bless You for tugging the rug so we feel our instability. 

Do Not Disturb, November 26

It's revealing that I made a pretty, "Please do not disturb" sign last week, but haven't used it, have hung it on the inside of the door. 

Trumpet Lips, November 22

I feel a sweet, silly sort of happiness that I haven't felt in a while. I've been making upbeat jazz tunes on trumpet lips.

There are a couple of reasons why. We wrote more, and it feels freeing. I've spent the day variously, in what feels like dissipation. Writing, reading Sayers, picking up a pumpkin pie, chatting with bro, cooking dinner, squaring up accounts. It feels so good to have a little more cash tucked into my Christmas envelope. And to (almost) pay off November bills.

Thank You. You answered my prayers (read: complaints) of the other day. Please work out Your will and truth in us now. 

To Satisfy Me, November 19

Please keep me aware of the preciousness of each day. Each particular day.
I can't do this over. And it won't last forever. What if this year is my last? Or my last here, at any rate? I don't want to be 28 and here, I'm realizing. At least, not with the current setup. I'm feeling selfish now. I need You to guide everything. And help me to be grateful for how good I have it right here, right now.

But don't let me be alone. Not in the way I'm afraid of. I lay in bed last night trying to think up comforting, satisfying, edifying fantasies. But I don't know how. I need realities. I need to be brave enough for them.

There were so many good smells on my walk today. Wood smoke. Pine needles. Catalpa bark, warmed with my breath. This was a good day, but I'm still not ready for life. Not ready to love rightly, to die.
To pray as I should and want to.

M looked really poorly today. It was difficult to see him. N remembered me.
An episode of TZ tonight dealt with the atrocities of Nazi Germany. And I know I'm capable of this. Even ST is reminding me how corruptible we are.
You see and know all my thoughts. You winnow them. Please keep giving me Your own self to behold, to believe, to hold and live and eat. Please help me to obey You on the home front. To be ready for anything, and not to doubt Your ability to provide, to supersede my expectations, to satisfy me.