Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Obsessed


My mother says I come by my drumming obsession honestly. Everyone in our family gets obsessed with what they are interested in. She with theater, poetry and writing fiction. My brother with computers, then digital photography. My father with skulls and boats and growing artichokes in Newfoundland. It must be in our blood.

I watch djembe videos on youtube. Some are wonderful. There is a guy from San Fransisco who moved to Bamako, Mali, married a Malian woman and spends all his time documenting Malian drummers on video and posting it on the internet. He sells drums and cds, arranges for radio interviews for his teachers and hosts visiting students from the United States and elsewhere.

I was worried that, being a woman, I wouldn't be able to study in Africa. But then I found out about a group of women from Guinea who travel the world playing djembe. They call themselves the Amazones and they are all magnificent. I love that they are large women... not tiny skinny like most of the male djembe players. I dream of going to West Africa some day and taking classes.

Last night in class we had a big group. 8 of us were playing together. We even had a djun djun player! At one point my teacher had us all playing different parts of the song. All of us playing different rhythms, layered on top of one another. By now I am pretty steady and can hold a beat. I realized that my friend Lucia and I were holding the whole thing together because all the others were new. We were the most experienced in the class, and were the only women.

I want to go see Amazones live.

Monday, October 15, 2007

Crack

Is it just a symptom of getting old, do you think? Or maybe it is because I carry around heavy kitchen tools all the time. Or sling a mahogany Djembe in a bag over my shoulder.

In any case, I woke up with the same crick in my neck that has been there for weeks. Couldn't turn my head to the side. Called and asked my chiropractor if he could fit me in. He could. So I wrapped up a big batch of cranberry almond bark and brought it as a thank you for squeezing me in.

Why I love my chiropractor: He manually adjusts my neck, which means he holds my head and cracks the bones with his bare hands. Then I get manhandled in all kinds of crazy ways while he cracks the bones in my shoulders and upper back.

I found out today that he no longer accepts my insurance, which means I have to find a new bone cracker. Darn.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Can this be Paradise?

Church was way busy this morning: Lectio Divina at 9, wrangling the talent for a stewardship testimonial during announcements, various trips to the bathroom with boy A or boy B. All craziness designed to pull me, kicking and screaming, from the feet of the Beloved, which is where I'd rather be on any given Sunday thank you very much.

But then, as I walked back out to the pew after bathroom break #2, during the latter half of Communion, there was a shift in the music. The choir started a 10th century monastic chant. Gentle. Quiet. Solemn. Beautiful.

I got back to my pew and dropped to my knees and spent the whole piece with my head bowed.

Oh thank you, Lord.

Afterwards I told the choir director that it was my favorite piece of the service.

"Really?!" He said. "Me too.!"

Friday, October 12, 2007

drum nut

Last night I told Nguyen that I had a rhythm beating in my head all day. It's a little like an 'ear worm'. You know, when a song keeps repeating itself in your brain?

This rhythm is one that I have been having trouble playing in class. Each piece of music that we play has 5 or 6 different rhythms. We play each rhythm for awhile and then our teacher, Sidy, plays a transition for us an we are supposed to jump right in with the next one. For some reason, I have a hard time transitioning to the second rhythm in the sequence...

So that rhythm has been banging around in my head for the last couple of days. Here's the funny part: In my head, I am hearing my teacher playing it... not me. My drum has a low, dull voice. His is higher pitched and sharp. Plus, he differentiates very clearly between a slap sound and what is called a tone sound. In my own playing, you can't really hear a difference yet.

So, in my head, all day long, the sound of my teacher playing the second rhythm of Sidiyasa.

One famous drumming teacher (I can't remember who) said that if you can sing a rhythm, you can play it. I wonder if hearing it in an endless loop will help me play it better? I'll tell you next week, LOL.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Camping as spiritual practice


A year ago I knew I was in trouble when, while camping on the Cape during Columbus day weekend, I spent much too much time being cranky and not nearly enough time enjoying the beautiful weather and wonderful setting. I talked about it with my Spiritual Director afterwards. I confessed to it in the confessional box. I apologized to my husband for being a shrew.

I don't know why camping can bring out the worst in me. I so easily veer into control freakishness and impatience. It seems to do this to Nguyen, too. He has a strange alter ego who emerges when we are in the woods. Macho, controlling. Between us it is the clash of the titans.

This weekend was different. We were on our shakedown trip with our new to us pop up camper. We have never had a pop up (pup) before, so there was plenty of opportunity for disputing how things work and what is the best way to set things up and how to pack most efficiently and where things should go in the campground and should we unroll the awning and does it look like rain and no, I don't care for beans, thank you. I even had my period, which is an automatic notch up on the cranky potential factor. And we had our nephew with us, which added to the boy energy, which can, admittedly, leave me needing solitude.

But something has shifted in the year since our last Columbus day weekend. First, the confessions. I think it served to bring home the fact that churlishness is, indeed, a sin. It certainly leaves me ungrateful, which is, in itself, sinful. But it also ruins everyone else's time.

Second, I am working on letting go of control. It is a lifelong habit that has been turned upside down as a Christian. Giving it over to God is the ultimate surrender of personal control... and I think, little by little, it is sinking in.

Finally, I realized that we only had one shot at making this weekend a joy. We can not go back and fix it if we ruin it with bad attitudes. We cannot take back what is spoken, or unspoken, in anger.

The weekend was mixed... wonderful, hot, cold, rainy, good food, bad overpriced food. Exhausting and relaxing. Quiet and noisy. But I think I maintained a pretty even keel throughout. My nephew and kids had a blast.

The pup made it through with only minor damage and wet mattresses from having to fold it up in the pouring rain.

We made it through with mostly good humor and some wonderful memories.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Decompression

I am finding it hard to be motivated to do much of anything this month. I don't feel like cleaning my house. I don't feel like working at my kitchen tools job. I go through the motions around chores. All I want to do lately is read my bible, take naps, and play my djembe, surf the net for new and interesting campgrounds on the Cape, maybe study Vietnamese for our trip.

Maybe it is because the activity level for a stay at home mom with two-little-boys-who- refuse-to-go-to-summer camp is high over the summer. For three months there is very little time to myself. There's lots of relaxation, but it is always syncopated with the kids activities.

So, lately, I am in what my friend Emily refers to as 'receive' mode. I just don't really want to DO much of anything. I just want to BE.

I got a bruise on my palm while playing my djembe last night.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Listen

The other night
At my drumming lesson
My teacher listened to me

He bowed his head
With his drum in his hands
Eyes closed
And after several minutes
Began to play and I knew that he was singing back to me
With his drum.

(I'll never forget it)

And then yesterday
At the lunch that should have been
Fish
My spiritual teacher listened
And when he spoke I had tears in my eyes because even now it moves me
To be listened to

So closely.

Please God,

Let me learn to listen as well as these teachers do.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Happy Happy Africa

My brother Jake came home from Botswana and Namibia yesterday, thinner, tired, and happy. It sounds like it was a wonderful trip! After dinner last night I went over to his house and saw some of the photos. Amazing. Elephants, rhinos, hippos, crocs, giraffes, zebras, baboons and tons of wild colored birds.

I am glad he is home safe. When he has some photos on his gallery site, I'll post the link.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Better get my earplugs


I have arranged for my drumming teacher to go to my kids' school and teach all the students about Mali and drumming. He is going to rent 60 djembes and have the kids come in in huge groups to learn a little about the culture and try out some rhythms. Isn't that great? I told him I will volunteer to help out and bring my two drums to share.

I can't wait to hear what 60 kids on djembes sound like. Wow!

The principal of the school is thrilled because it is the week after the big testing and she is sure the kids will LOVE to blow off some steam.

Fear of Paperwork

Is there an official phobia for that? Fear of filling out forms. Fear of bureaucracy? Fear of spelling bureaucracy wrong?

I sat at my computer with social security cards and old passports and birth certificates and had to print the same form over and over because I made mistakes and God forbid to mess this up because it is the State Department and if you mess up your passport applications, you are so screwed.

But I think I am done.

Tomorrow we go to the post office to get our photos taken and submit the apps and hope that we never end up on the wall with those OTHER photos.

Whew.

Next: Airline tickets and visas from the Vietnamese consulate. Then lots of shots for diseases that should have been eradicated a century ago. (Can you imagine cholera for crying out loud? My friend Michael actually caught it when he was in Thailand a few years ago. And rabies, but that's a whole other story.)

I found a gorgeous little Inn about a block from the beach in Nha Trang. It is called the Perfume Grass Inn. At $17 a night US it is a bargain, too. And I can't wait to try the mud baths. And grilled lobsters for $3. And hanging out with my in laws. And visiting my husband's home town.

Wonderful.

Even with the paperwork.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

6 years later

and I still cannot talk about it without weeping.

Is it rhythm?

I seem to like rhythm, in my life, in my religion, in my week and in my drum. I like the cycles of the church year. I like the predictable nature of my week, with Sunday at church, Monday drum class, Tuesday bible study, Wednesday noon mass (this is a new addition I am trying to do regularly.) The structure creates space in which I can be

creative

or productive

or lazy.

Drumming class was just me again last night. The first time I was alone with Sidy, I was scared to death of messing up because I knew I couldn't hide behind someone else's drumming. Which meant, of course, that I got nervous and messed up a lot.

Last night was different. Something shifted. How this works is that I am playing the recurring rhythms while he solos. It is part of the learning process to get stable enough in the rhythm to allow a soloist to work off of you. Last time, I was too tentative... quiet, unsteady. I didn't feel like I was able to hold up my end of the conversation, so to speak.

But last night, I played powerfully. I recovered faster when I screwed up. I played loud enough and fast enough that Sidy could play inside and around my rhythm.

At some point, people came in to the bar through the back door. My teacher is a performer. When there is an audience, you can sense that he kicks it up. I was able to keep the rhythm going. I created the structure that gave him the space to break loose. I think we sounded good.

I had a big blister on my palm last night. When I got home, I excitedly showed Nguyen. Look, I said. I got this from playing.

My shoulders hurt today. I couldn't be more thrilled.

Monday, September 10, 2007

PS: Happy Birthday to me.

Not my actual birthday, but the anniversary of my baptism.

4 years ago today, I was 'whacked over the head by the Holy two by four'* of Christ and life hasn't been the same since.

Halleluja.

Thanks be to God.

*thanks to P.D. for that great expression, LOL.

Vietnam


Big doings around here...

About a week ago, after getting back from our camping trip, my husband received a letter from his father saying that his health is deteriorating and that he doesn't feel well. He has had several strokes over the last few years, so we were immediately concerned.

We have thought about traveling to Vietnam a lot since Nguyen's trip back a couple of years ago, but time and money (and the hassle factor, I think) have prevented us from moving forward. But you know what? We have to go now. We want Nguyen's dad to see the kids in his own town before he passes on. We want the kids to see their dad's homeland. Heck, I want to see his homeland. So we put the little trailer on the market and sold it within 2 days. It is going to finance our trip.

In February, we are traveling to Nha Trang for a couple of weeks. Maybe three. But at least two.

I am intimidated by the 23 hour plane ride and the 8 hour drive from Saigon to Nha Trang. I am a little worried that I am not usually at my best in humidity. And I am pretty sure I am going to miss western food at least a little. But I am also incredibly excited, even as the list of things to do gets big before we even start. (Visas, passports, inoculations for terrifying diseases.)

It feels, though, like this is some kind of major shift in our lives. I think it is going to be huge.

Off we go.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Breakfast of champions


It's not cheap, ($1.75 per container) but if you can find Fage Greek yogurt in your area, grab it. It is, without a doubt, the best yogurt I have ever had.

So, breakfast:

1/2 an apple cut into chunks
7 oz. container of Fage 2% plain yogurt

Mix.

Eat with a big tablespoon.

Then lick the bowl.

Monday, September 03, 2007

Thank God for hot water


After a weekend of camping in a place with no hot water, no bathrooms (think porta johns) and no showers, I was READY to come home.

Not that we didn't have fun. The campground is great, with a little pond stocked with fish, miles of hiking trails, great sites with fire pits and picnic tables and friendly neighbors. And the weather was spectacular as only an early September weekend can be. The sky was brilliant blue and virtually cloudless. The temperature was in the 70s during the day and down to the 50s at night.

We have a very cute camper called a Casita. It is made of molded fiberglass, which means it is pretty lightweight and doesn't leak. (No seams!) It has many of the creature comforts that make camping more fun. A comfortable bed with down pillows we inherited from my grandmother. A little refrigerator and a propane stove. A sink with cold water. It's a cozy place to hang out. (Pictured above, in our driveway.)

My favorite part of camping this time was cooking in the dutch oven. I am learning as I go along with this. This time I made two dishes. The first night was a dump cake. This is a concoction that was invented by the boy scouts. It involves cake mix and canned fruit and is surprisingly easy and delicious, except I left it in the fire too long and it ended up a charred mess.

The next effort was MUCH more successful. I made chili with cornbread. First, I fried up the onions in oil, then added a couple of pounds of ground beef. Once that was cooked, I added the chili spices, a can of tomatoes, some tomato sauce and a can of drained black beans. I put that in the fire and checked it regularly for about 20 minutes. When it was done, I mixed up some cornbread batter and dropped it on top of the chili. Put the giant cast iron lid on and covered it with a few embers from the fire. About 10 minutes later I brushed the embers off and opened the lid. Like magic, the cornbread had baked on top of the chili. It was absolutely delicious.

We saw lots of animals this time. The chipmunks, of course, with their little holes at the base of every tree. Each morning I was awakened by the red squirrels fussing in the trees. We saw a garter snake and dozens of kinds of dragon flies. The kids went frog hunting in a swamp and sank up to their knees in the mire while in hot pursuit. We kicked open a rotten log and found a couple of salamanders. We saw hawks and sand pipers and all manner of creatures, great and small.

I managed not to get too cranky when the campsite was left a mess by all three of the menfolk.
The kids, for the first time, were given free rein in the campground, tooling around on their bikes, or walking down to the beach on their own.

It was a wonderful way to top off a great summer.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

File under: What were they thinking?


An African style drum with a yin yang symbol on the head and a Celtic knot carved into the base. Made in Bali.

Huh?

The only crazier thing I have seen was a wall hanging comprised of 7 dream catchers in the colors of the chakras, made in China.

Yeah.

You know you want one.

Nice Matters



I am excited to announce that I was nominated for the 'Nice Matters' blog award by Episcopollyanna. I am really excited about this!

The fact is, I consciously decided at the outset that I was NOT going for edgy snarky funny. At the risk of major dorkiness, I chose, instead, to let this blog be a snark-free zone because it seemed to me that there was already enough sarcasm floating around on the internet. Also, this blog is meant to be more of a reflection of who I aspire to be, rather than who I have been. Those of you who have known me for awhile know that I can dredge up the edgy snarky funny (ESF) at a moment's notice. In fact, it strikes me that I have often used ESF humor in the past to cover up when I am feeling vulnerable. Which, as a new Christian, has become a state of being for me. Because what can be MORE vulnerable than having your life and everything you thought you knew suddenly turn upside down? Because engagement with God requires being on the real edge, not the ESF edge.

The danger, of course, is that I can come across as prim. Or worse, boring. Or breathlessly earnest. Or whatever. But one of the great joys of this journey is that we get to stretch beyond our wildest dreams. We get to realize that who we were does not dictate who we are or who we will be. We can turn the whole thing over to God and let him do his work on us, change us, sanctify us, heal us.

I always dreamed of being a nice person.

Having a nice blog is a good start.

Thanks, Episcopollyanna.

Thanks.




Now, for my own nominations:

Monastic Mumblings
Terrapin Station
Along the Way
Swandive
The Owl's Song
Widening Circles
You duped me, Lord
The Urban Mermaid...

And just about everyone else on my blogroll, LOL.

Check 'em out.

I love you all!

Today is the day

The kids started school this morning. They were probably the only kids in line with their old sneakers on, and I immediately felt like a bad mom. Next year I bite the bullet and get them shiny new shoes for their first day of school.

It is 9:48 and I have hours before the bell rings again. I made a leisurely breakfast. (An omlett, if you must know, with cheese and left over mexican style pulled pork and some Frank's Red Hot for good measure. And coffee.)

The house is a wreck. There is clutter and blobs of rabbit fur and now big clumps of dog hair because we are keeping my brother's 15 year old golden/Shepard mix while he is in Africa. So vacuuming is one of the first orders of business.

Then, grocery shopping alone.

Then, a nap.

Or lunch.

Or lunch and a nap.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

August and everything after

I facilitated a retreat for the healing ministry team from Grace yesterday. I felt led by the Holy Spirit, and it felt so safe. At some point I realized that if I tried to do it all myself, I would mess it up, so I went to the bathroom and got on my knees and invited God to take over. Pinch hit, if you will.

Well, God came through, in spades. The day flowed. We worshiped and praised God together. We prayed for healing for each other. We broke bread and drank wine and celebrated the joy that God has given us. It was a remarkable day.

The presence of the Holy Spirit always leaves me feeling slightly exhausted and vulnerable afterwards, though. Is it that way for you?

Last night, my brother came by for dinner, before getting on a plane to Namibia today. And I found out my dear great aunt Ally died this week.

We dropped my brother off at the airport this morning. He even allowed me to hold his hands and pray for him before he got on the plane. Right in front of all the passersby. He was probably mortified. But he is learning to indulge me in these things, and is maybe even a little grateful that I seem to have enough faith for both of us.

In church, today, I was a bit of a mess, weeping and praying. So much joy and loss and concern all rolled into one long weekend. After the service I snuck back to the robing room and cornered Fr. Rich and asked him to pray over me.

Then I went home and slept for hours.

Beloved God,

I praise you, the almighty, great Lover of our souls.

I pray for my aunt Ally, may she rest in your eternal peace.

I give you my brother. Let him be a light in the lives of those he encounters in his travels. Keep him safe. Let him return to us healthy and safe.

And Lord, if you would have me be a healer, give me the strength and courage to do as you will.

I ask all this in Jesus' name.

Amen.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Countdown

We have actually had a nice summer, the boys and I. We have had a few adventures. We have made art and music together. We saw wild turkey moms herding a big collective brood of chicks. A painted turtle with a leech on it's shell. An American Bluebird.

We made rubber stamps and printed notecards from them. We went on a couple of aborted attempts at fossil hunting.

Since the boys are getting old enough that they don't need my constant attention, I have even managed to read a couple of novels. One about a Caribbean woman living in Cape Town, South Africa, (dreary) and another, which I haven't finished yet, about the crazy abundance of summer in the Appalachian mountains. (Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver. LOVING it!)

I have been alternately working a lot and resenting working a lot. We haven't been camping yet. I think we will try for Labor Day, dry camping at our favorite primitive site.

End of summer can be a time of pressure. Back to school hype enticing us to go spend a fortune on clothes. WHY is this such a production? I informed the kids, in no uncertain terms, that they can go back on their first day of school wearing the sneakers they wore on the last day in June. They still fit. I'll get them new ones after the parental panic has died down. I did buy them some new pants and tee shirts, socks and underwear. And snacks for their lunches, which I forgot about last year.

Oh, and the dreaded lunch boxes. Maybe I'll make do with brown paper bags until the madness is over.

Emmett turns 7 on Tuesday. He is so used to hanging out with his big brothers friends he hasn't invited any of his own to the party. I might make him invite just one or two of his peers.

Two days later the boys go back to full time school and I go back to having 6 hours a day to myself. To grocery shop in solitude. To work uninterrupted. To run errands without packing up the kids and corralling them along. To read and play drums and walk and have lunch with friends who I haven't seen in months. To having a house that stays tidy for more than 8 seconds.

I am going to miss my kids.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

I fell asleep last night

with rhythms in my head.

Today I am going to buy my kids drums so we can play together.

Gone a visiting

My friend Amy is in seminary and for a month, this summer, has been filling in as pastor at her church while the minister is on vacation.

I wanted to go see her preach, so on Sunday, instead of turning towards Providence, I made a beeline across Rt. 37 and drove up Reservoir Ave to a UCC church.

I pulled behind the church and was immediately struck by fact that the brick wall of the church forms a subtle v-shape in the center. Even from outside, I knew that was where the cross must hang inside. I loved the sense that the cross was 'busting loose' through the stonework of the building. It felt powerful, to me. So often in church's of that vintage (1970's, maybe?) the architects were so busy interpreting their designs to be 'modern' they often failed to communicate any real religious meaning. But this worked.

Amy preached from bullet points, drawing us in with her conversational style. Challenging us to remember that our own stories of conversion, whatever they might be, are heroes stories. The hero being Jesus and we being the sidekick. This struck a cord for me. I am often shy about sharing my story.

The liturgy reminded me of my old UU church. There was a meditation piece. The sharing of joys and concerns. Announcements at the beginning of the service rather than in the middle, as we do in the Episcopal church. I found myself missing communion, of course. I had prepared ahead of time by going to church on Wednesday at noon, but still, I have grown so used to the Eucharist as the central element of worship it seems that a service without it is missing something, LOL. I told Amy I am a liturgy hound and I think it is true.

It was wonderful seeing my friend in the pulpit. You could tell that the congregation loves her, and she them.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Suddenly

They are big now.

Noah, who is going into 5th grade, has been riding his bike to his friend's house this summer. And Emmett, who is turning 7 this month, has been tagging along.

As I watch them ride down the street on their bikes, I feel a little wistful, knowing that this is going way too fast. So fast.

And here I am, with a quiet moment in the middle of summer. What luxury!

Drum, books, phone, beckon.

Nap?

Prayer!?

All of the above.

I have goat skin envy

My drum teacher has a big collection of djembes from his country, Mali. They weigh a ton. On Monday I helped him carry a couple of them from his car. They are made out of an African hardwood that probably has no name in English. And the skins are spotted like the goats they came from. And though they have been shaved on the part you play, the hair is left on the rims. And they stink. At least one of the ones I was carrying did. It smelled just like, well, a goat. Which made me laugh because I grew up with goats and love the earthy, musty, dung-ish goat smell. Much stronger than a sheep. Or cow. Or horse.

My djembe has a goat skin, too, but it is antiseptically clean and processed so it can sit in a music store and not stink up the joint. Of course, my brother's dog recognizes it for what it is and still licks it if she gets a chance. (She seems to think it is a fancy rawhide.)

My teacher, Sidy, sells his drums. I have decided that if I take lessons for a whole year, I will buy one to celebrate. I will test them out. Examine the wood to make sure it's not cracked. Look for bug bites in the hide. Pick one up to see if I can carry it. Test the bass and the tone and the slap. And then pick out the stinkiest one I can find.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

The desk


I needed to organize my office. It was a hellish pit. I had papers and junk stacked in teetering piles on an old metal desk with flaking paint and a scratched up melamine top I had painted sage green. Now the fake wood grain was peeking through where the paint had worn off.

Too much shoe-horned into a tiny, 1927 sleeping porch. A bookshelf. A huge metal file cabinet. A bunch of miscellaneous boxes of paperwork and kitchen tools that haven't been picked up yet. A 1960s Wurlitzer piano and the aforementioned L-shaped office desk.

The fact is, my work suffered because of this chaos. I was embarrassed for people to see my office, and since it is attached to the living room with a set of french doors, it is impossible to hide.

I tore off the 'L' of the L-shaped desk. I threw away garbage bags full of old magazines and outdated mail and paid bills and junk mail. I cleared the printer off the desk got all the supplies and paperwork put away onto the bookshelf. I cleaned and sorted and tossed.

And then I went hunting for a desk.

I knew I wanted wood. But was astonished at the prices. A decent one started at about $400 and went up from there. So, maybe a resale shop? I checked around. And then checked some more. The little place up the street from me had a desk, but it was too big.

So, last week, I went to the salvation army. No desk, but an awesome desk lamp from the age of stream line. Probably from the 40s or 50s. $5. I brought it home.

Then, a week later, I stopped in my local resale shop and poked around. Listen, I said to the owner. I am looking for a wooden double pedestal desk. If you find one, please let me know. I handed him my card.

He wasn't sure what I was talking about, however, so I drew a little sketch on the card and headed home.

1 hour later he called to tell me that he had a desk for me to check out. What's it made of, I asked, hoping it wasn't melamine. Walnut, he said. I started to get excited.

And sure enough. It fit exactly. It belonged to a physician who had his office in his house. It is built like a brick you know what and has 6 drawers and beautiful legs and weighs a ton and will likely get passed on to my kids. And it was $129 plus tax.

The next day I found a walnut bankers chair on craig's list that was made in 1936 and still has it's label on it. It tilts on a cast iron mechanism and makes the most delightful screech.

Then I decided to give away my piano and found a guy who is starting a foundation to give music lessons to poor kids in his neighborhood. Come and get it, I said. He is coming next week.

It's all good.

Thanks be to God.

Thursday, August 09, 2007

Tightly wound

I am pretty sure that normal people (ie, non full-time moms) have absolutely no idea what a thin edge we who stay home with our kids skate on all the time.

Take today for instance. For a month now, I have known that I was having lunch with my spiritual director. He knows that summer is more of a challenge because the kids are out of school. For the last two months I have managed to find a sitter for the kids and have met him at restaurants for our monthly lunch. It is far from ideal.... even if the food is good. It is hard to stay focused on pouring out one's soul when the waiter keeps stopping by to refill the water glasses.

So for the last couple of weeks I have been working on getting a baby sitter and finally scored one who will let the kids go to her house for a couple of hours.

Bliss, right? Homemade lunch. No waiters. My famous salad.

Except not.

When I called to check if I could drop the kids off a little earlier than we planned, said babysitter confessed that she has a track and field meeting and can't sit for them. Oh. I said. Next time it would be helpful if she gave me more than an hour's notice. She apologized profusely.

Quick call to Nguyen. Can he take the kids out for lunch?

Nope.

I hung up and started crying.

Because it just sucks, sometimes, that a 14 year old has so much power over my life.

And then I stopped because I realize that it really isn't that big a deal.

Fr. P won't mind. The kids will be fine. I'll be fine.

But dang.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Speaking of Africa


My brother is heading to southern Africa for a photography trip in a couple of weeks. He is going to Namibia and Botswana to shoot the wildlife around the Okavongo delta during the dry season. This is his first big expedition and he is, frankly, getting a little nervous.

I will be asking for your prayers, guys. He's my only, dearly loved, brother.

Strange how all this Africa stuff seems to be going on lately.

Not quite djembefola

Even though I am a long way from mastering the African drum, I am definitely making progress. Each new rhythm is coming more easily. I am able to 'find' the rhythms and sometimes even remember them between classes.

My teacher, Sidy, goes off into another world when he plays. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back as though waiting for inspiration. Every now and then he looks at us. I always have this stupid grin on my face because I am transported by the music he is making. But I can't focus on what he is doing too much because I will easily lose my own rhythm and have to stop playing for a second while I get my bearings. Learning to play a steady rhythm while someone else is soloing is a very difficult thing!

Sunday, August 05, 2007

A South African Priest visited

Grace church today. He is in town for the summer, staying with his daughter and son in law, who now live in Providence.

He gave a talk before the service. Robby is a white South African who was a civil servant of the apartheid system for decades before something happened that caused him to realize that apartheid was wrong. He simultaneously heard the call to the priesthood and left his job to enter seminary. I asked him how the shift in consciousness happened. It seemed to us outsiders that it was incredibly sudden and shockingly peaceful. No one, I said, who was watching from afar believed it could happen without violence.

"It was prayer," he replied. "It is my only explanation. It was a miracle. We were praying and the world was praying too."

I am not sure why I cannot talk about South Africa without weeping. Perhaps it is because I really do believe that it was a miracle. One that we all witnessed in our lifetimes. A miracle that none of us expected.

When I was 18 years old, I spent the summer in New York City working at an ice cream shop on Christopher Street. One of my coworkers was a Dutch South African named Adolph. He was, without a doubt, the most racist person I ever met.

His explanation for the necessity of apartheid was that the blacks were just too damned stupid to run the country. It would be a complete disaster to give the government over to them, he said. He would imitate how they talked. He would laugh at the idea of his house servants having a vote. I was young, which meant I had no restraint whatsoever, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was a racist pig. I left the job and never heard of Adolph again. But I never forgot him, especially when, 6 years later, the townships started rioting and we caught whiffs of the black on black violence going on. It's insurmountable, I thought. It is impossible. With people like Adolph at the helm, it can't possibly change without devastating violence.

But then, a couple of years later, the shift began to happen. Mandela was released. Elections were scheduled and the world watched in tense wonder as thousands upon thousands of black South Africans lined up to vote for the first time in their lives. The world held it's breath for the violence that really never came.

And then, we watched as the Truth and Reconciliation commission began to lift the lid on the pain and darkness that was hiding beneath the surface. Horror stories. Petty bureaucrats and their petty abuses. The slow unraveling of the system that knitted the whole country into a dysfunctional mantle of anger and fear. The confessions. The absolution.

I remember hearing Archbishop Tutu on the radio, once. I listened as he described the process that was helping to heal his broken nation. This, I thought, is a Holy man. This is a man who is teaching others to put Christ's forgiveness in action. This was long before my own conversion. But even then, as confused as I was, I recognized a miracle when I saw one.

There is still much damage in South Africa. The priest today said that there is something of a vacuum left at the end of apartheid, because it permeated every element of the society and government. So yes, there is terrible economic disparity, health crisis, social problems, and all the rest. We must continue to pray for healing for South Africa.

We must continue to pray, but we have much to be grateful for. And awed by.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

The word of the Lord

Yesterday afternoon was hot and muggy, so I took the kids to the little pond where I was baptized.

This place always feels holy to me now. Even with the screaming kids and the lifeguards and the baking moms and dads. Even with the rough-housing teenagers who wish they were at the ocean. Even on a steamy day when the water on the surface of the pond is as warm as a tub, and dark as smoked tea.

My dunk took place on a September morning, when there were no kids or moms or teens. Just a couple of fisherman on the opposite bank, catching a different sort of fish. It was cool and clear. The water and insects and wet white of my ministers robes conspired with the holy spirit to infuse, not just me, but the whole world, with God's grace and love.

It is a spring fed pond, made dark by the tannic acid of the surrounding pines. It smells delicious, woodsy and secret, even in broad daylight at the height of summer.

The surface water is way over 80 degrees, but just below, near our feet, the springs gush forth cold water from deep within the earth, reminding me that it's heart is not the stagnant water lily studded surface. But deeper, hidden, pure.

And then there are the geese. A whole flock of Canada geese that patrol the beach and cruise the surface of the pond, gliding here and there, ignoring the ropes and buoys designed to hold the wayward swimmers in.

They mutter to themselves, almost always travel together, litter the beach with their droppings, much to the chagrin of the lifeguards, whose duty it is to clean up after.

As I sat in the shade of the tall pines and read my book, a lone goose approached. He looked right at me and mumbled.

"Do you have a word for me?" I asked.

He honked gently in reply. A deep rumble. Lower by half an octave than his friend's voices.

"Yes," I said.

"It is a holy place, isn't it?"

He murmured his assent and then walked off, launching himself into the water and gliding away.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

My letter to the editor of the Providence Journal earlier this week:

This is a buried treasure I would rather not find.

Last night, my husband and I took the kids to beautiful City Park in Warwick. We were down on the beach watching the sunset when a woman and her two white dogs walked by. Almost simultaneously, the two dogs squatted and defecated on the sand. The woman kept walking.

I was floored.

"You should clean that up." I called to her.

"Oh Really?" she replied, and kept walking.

This on a beach that kids, toddlers and babies play on all day long.

There was once a time when dog lovers could walk their dogs all over the place, but one by one, parks and beaches and recreation areas are closing to them. When I spoke to the Parks and Recreation Department of Warwick today, the gentleman said they will install a sign prohibiting dogs from the beach at City Park.

It's a shame, really, that irresponsible and rude dog owners ruin it for everyone else.


NOTE:

I have been working on getting over my anger all week. The letter helped. Calling the parks department helped. But maybe those are just vindictiveness.

Lord, give me the grace to let go of this anger without lashing out at the woman with the dogs.

Bang Bang

My friends and I played our djembes in front of Grace Church before the service today. Cars slowed as they passed. Passers by smiled. Some crossed to the other side of the street to avoid us. Maybe they thought we were buskers.

Someone opened a window on the second floor of the hotel next door. He yelled to us, but we couldn't hear him over the syncopation of our hands slapping the goatskins. We smiled up at him and wondered if we woke him up.

Get out of bed and go to church, we joked.

Ours was a loud call to worship.

Monday, July 23, 2007

Present

I only missed church for one week, yet felt, yesterday, as if it had been months since I took communion. The kids were hanging out in the nursery, so I had a rare time of solitude in my pew. I knelt and buried my head in my arms and spent the time before the service began in prayer.

Around me I could hear the bustle of people entering the nave, sitting, chatting quietly, greeting one another. The choir was practicing. But none of it distracted me from the sense that I was sitting in the presence of Jesus.

I had things to confess. Things to tell him. I realized, for example, that the reason I didn't approach the pharisee woman in Chicago was really because of fear. I had to admit that to him. (And will, perhaps, confess it to my priest at my next confession.)

He challenged me. "What if I ask you to leave your church?"

"I will do as you ask."

"What if I ask you to stay?"

"I will do as you say."

I even imagined, for a moment, what I would do if I became pregnant. 42 years old. Would I be afraid? Would I want to have all kinds of prenatal tests to insure the baby was healthy? Would I be willing to have the baby no matter what? In my heart I said, yes, yes, yes, Lord. I would pray for strength and courage.

My friend Pete jokes that he gets hit by the two by four of Christ now and then.

Yesterday I was whacked.

During communion, I wanted to weep with relief.

Two weeks is too long to go without it.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Rain

I was grateful for the rain today. It meant that I could spend time tidying my office without feeling guilty that I wasn't outside somewhere with the kids.

My schedule is crazy this week, with 5 kitchen tools shows scheduled. I wouldn't normally work that frantically, but since I was out of town, I needed to catch up. And since I am working towards earning a cruise to the Caribbean, I am happy with the extra work. (It's a sales gig, after all. They give us incentives!)

So, rain.

And now, sleep.

Oh, and PS: I was chatting with my dad on the phone today and told him of my adventures in African drumming. I think, this time, I have finally managed to blow his mind. It was so unexpected... so completely out of left field he was almost speechless, LOL. He took a class on Ethnomusicology in college, so he knew a little about the complicated rhythms of west Africa. But I don't think it ever occurred to him try and play them. I explained that this was yet another way of plumbing the depths of my humility.

When he comes for Thanksgiving (Yeah!) I will have to play some songs for him.

Rain makes my drumhead loose.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Pharisees

I was at a kitchen tools convention in Chicago for the last few days.

I was rooming with a good friend of mine. G was raised Catholic, but has had many doubts in the last few years. She is struggling with her faith.

So, at lunch one day, we were sitting with a table full of consultants from Ohio. They were a pretty friendly bunch. We chatted a bit, introduced ourselves, compared notes on the conference so far. At one point, I got up to use the restroom. When I came back, G said to me,

"You missed saying grace."

No problem. I bowed my head and said a little prayer of thanks, silently, and started eating my salad.

Throughout the conversation over lunch, the woman next to G became increasing rude and hostile towards us. If we tried to make conversation with her, she was cold and condescending. Finally, we just quit bothering and talked with the woman next to me, instead.

After lunch, G said to me:

"That is why I think Christians are such hypocrites. That girl made a big fuss about saying grace, and then was rude for the rest of the meal."

At which point I was tempted to go find that girl and tell her how much damage her rudeness had just caused. In fact, when I saw her later, in a workshop, I sat and prayed about whether I should approach her. I would have told her that, as a Christian, she needs to be sensitive to the effect she has on others. Being openly rude after you just made a big production about prayer is not going to help bring about the kingdom. And since it happens that my friends faith is already being tested, she just added to her struggle.

I didn't approach her, in the end, because I felt like she wouldn't have been able to hear what I was saying.

But I did take the opportunity to share with G about the fact that all of us, including those of us who profess to be Christians, are flawed people. None of us are perfect. I also shared why confession is such an amazing process. She listened intently as I described it, and was surprised by how loving an act it is, after spending years thinking of it as a kind of intrusion.

In the end, I will try and pray for that woman at the table. And for my friend, who is truly one of the most generous and loving people I know. And for all who do not yet know Jesus.

And I am once again reminded that being a Christian carries huge responsibilities. When we are open about our faith, we must also accept the fact that we are ambassadors for the Kingdom. I pray every day that I can share the light of God with those I encounter. And when I fail, I pray I have the courage to confess it.

Monday, July 09, 2007

Holy Halal Cow, Batman....


I suppose this is all over the media, but I have been following the story of Ann Holmes Redding lately.

She is an Episcopal priest from Washington who has recently converted to Islam. She hopes to continue as a priest, stating that she feels there is no conflict between Islam and Christianity.

Here's the story as reported in the Seattle Times.

It turns out, she doesn't fall under the jurisdiction of the Diocese of Washington, but somehow, she falls under the Diocese of Rhode Island. So our Bishop has apparently had a discussion with her and has put her on a one year leave in order to discern whether she is, indeed, a Christian. In addition, the Bishop has set up some kind of spiritual direction for Redding.

This is an interesting story for a former UU. In my old church, the idea of being both a Muslim and a Christian would probably barely raise an eyebrow. In fact, being a Christian would have been more suspect!

But I have to wonder at the christology of someone who can claim both Islam and Christianity. One fundamental difference between the two is how you view Jesus. If Redding's christology is such that Jesus was a prophet, or even without sin but still fully human, it makes me wonder what she is doing with that bread and wine every week.

Episcopalians like to think that the wide highway is the better choice. That we can all somehow exist comfortably, even with profoundly divergent theologies. And as parishioners, that may very well be true. But it seems to me that a priest that is basically crossing her fingers behind her back when reciting the creed should not be leading a flock. Truly, if you take Jesus out of the picture, what does that leave us with? It stuns me that she was the head of faith formation for her local diocese.

Jhn 14:6 Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.

I applaud Bishop Wolf for taking action on this issue.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Nothing went as planned

But that certainly didn't stop us from having a wonderful time.

My husband took the kids fishing, which gave my brother and me a rare afternoon alone. We cooked.

The menu was one of off-the-wall excess. Exactly what I complain about in the previous post.

We made beef ribs in homemade barbeque sauce. Two racks of baby back pork ribs. Homemade cole slaw. Homemade baked beans. Cornbread. Corn on the cob.

We mixed and marinated and basted. The beef ribs were braised in a slow oven for a few hours before we threw them on the grill for the final step. The pork ribs were so incredibly lean and tender we ate them rare.

Jake showed up with a couple of iced coffees. We talked about stuff. We joked around. The weather turned to rain just as we were ready to sit and eat this huge feast. The kids and husband pitched up and we laid all the meat on a groaning table, side dishes dotting the table wherever they could fit.

We gave thanks, oh Lord, for the bounty of this table. May it remind us, always, of your abundant love.

And then we ate.

No fireworks. Round bellies and good company.

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

4th of July


There are lots of things that piss me off about this country. It is easy to take pot shots at it. The culture of excess, the obsession with huge, the bizarre combination of puritanical and prurient.

But when I am tempted to fall into cynicism, I also have to remember the things I love about it.

As a Rhode Islander, one of the greatest gifts we have is the mix of cultures. Being a coastal state, we have immigrants from all corners of the globe. Many were economic immigrants: the Irish, the Italians, the Portuguese. Others are political refugees, most recently the South East Asians from Cambodia, Laos, and my husband's country of Vietnam.

I know the debate is raging in Washington about the recent immigration bill... but for me, one of the truly great things about this country is that it is made up of people from all over the world.

So, on this 4th of July, even as we are mired in an unjust war in the middle east, even as we are collectively consuming way more than our fair share of the Earth's resources, even as we are still driving ridiculously huge gas guzzlers to the grocery store, I give thanks.

(Photo of my husband, kids, nieces, by my brother, Jake Hegnauer)

Sunday, July 01, 2007

The laying on of hands



On the first Sunday of the month, if you come to Grace church, you can ask a prayer team to pray with you during the Eucharist. After you take communion, walk to the back of the church and you will be annointed with oil and your hands will be held and you will be listened to. And then the healing team will put our hands on you and each other and say prayers and lift you and the people you love up to the Divine Healer of us all.

Bring your fears, loves, joys, sorrows. Bring your suffering to be shared, and maybe transformed. Bring your experiences, good and bad. Bring your family and friends. Bring yourself, in your frailty and strength.

And as we pray with you and for you, we, too, will be healed.

Amen.

Saturday, June 30, 2007

I should be disappointed


But on such a beautiful day, how can I be? My kitchen tools hostess called me this morning to cancel our show today. She has been up all night barfing and thought it might be bad for sales. Um. Yeah.

Here's the rub: Darling husband thought I was working today, so about an hour ago he packed up the kids and headed down to Newport to see the Tall Ships. It makes no sense at all for me to drive a separate car into the tourist hell that is Newport, so I sweetly suggested that today might be a boys day out.

I am free!

Truth be told, I would love to be wrangling out-of-towners and craning my neck towards impossibly huge sailing ships, but the fact is, it isn't going to happen. So the next best thing is shoe shopping for my trip to Chicago in a week and a half. Or sitting in my nightgown and blogging while sipping coffee.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Stewardship

I have joined my first official committee at Grace Church. I am now the co-chair of the stewardship committee.

I suppose it is a simple fact of life that if you show up at a church regularly, you are going to be approached to join something.

For my first year at Grace, I steadfastly refused to sign up for anything. I had significantly overcommitted at Bell Street, so I wanted time to just sit in the pews.

Then, when I considered joining something, I thought I would pick something sexy like the ministry committee or adult religious education. I mean, who actually picks stewardship?

But for the last year, I have been tithing, and it has been a big deal. It is inviting me into a new kind of relationship with God and with money and the material world. And I am learning lessons from it that I could learn no other way. Not the least of which is that when I share my widow's mite with my church, I am contributing to the kingdom in my own little corner of the world. And opening a door to God that I had previously bolted closed. Money was one of the last major bunkers of my will and ego. One of the last places of darkness that I shielded from God's light. Can you picture me holding onto this dark place in my heart and mind? It was fear.

And where you find fear, you need to open it up to God. Crack open the box and let the fear out and let God in.

So last September, with great trepidation, I decided to start tithing. I set up and automatic deduction at the bank and every week money is taken from our household account and transferred to Grace church. Plus, when I get checks from my kitchen tools gig, I write additional checks to the church.

I would love to say that tithing has solved all our financial problems. So far that has not been the case. I am still sick with money. I still spend too much and fret too much and worry. My husband's business is still doing poorly. But at the end of the day, the discipline of giving away part of our income has brought subtle and significant gifts. I feel deeply invested in the body of Christ. Not just my church, but the whole body. I feel a sense of stewardship towards my own money, because I realize, on some level, it doesn't really belong to me in the first place. I am giving back to God what has been so freely given to me.

And I realized that I am called to help others make this leap of faith, to draw them into deeper relationship with God.

So I joined the stewardship committee.

I'll keep you posted.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

A visit from John of the Cross

I have mentioned before that I am a member of a yahoo group called 'Spark of the day'.

A couple of times a week, the moderator sends out a quote from John of the Cross. Usually is it without comment. It is a lovely little message in my inbox, usually inviting me to spend a moment or two thinking about what Juan de la Cruz has to say.

Today, he is talking about spiritual dryness:

God values in you the inclination to dryness and suffering for love of
him more than all the consolations, spiritual visions, and meditations
you could possibly have.

John of the Cross
"Sayings of Light and Love"

When I first converted, I was all about the consolations. God had used them to draw me to himself for years before I finally stopped resisting and became a Christian. It was the Holy Spirit who first got my attention, giving me mystical experiences which beckoned me to walk towards him. After my baptism, I experienced consolations intensely for months.

I would have a physical reaction during these experiences. I would feel slightly queasy, like I was going to faint. My head would swim. My extremities felt tingly. It wasn't as scary as it sounds. It was the sweetest high you can imagine.

Over the last year or so, these experiences have dropped off. And while I miss them, surely, I also feel that it might just indicate that my relationship with God is maturing. I am gradually letting go of the idea that mystical experiences=spiritual maturity. In fact, it might be just the opposite for me.

How about you? Have you found your relationship with God changes over the years?

What has your experience been?

Monday, June 25, 2007

Friday Five....

On Monday morning!


1. Favorite summer food(s) and beverage(s)

I love ice cream. Since I don't indulge in sugar much, these days, I drive to the nearest Brickley's (a family owned place). They have the best no-sugar added ice cream I have ever had. Maple Walnut.

I also love grilled lamb. Sometimes we shish kabob it. Sometimes just throw a marinated, butterflied leg on to barbeque and sometimes we eat it ground, like burgers, with yogurt and mint. I swear I must have been middle eastern in another life. If I had another life. Which I didn't. Because I don't believe in such things. ;-)

2. Song that "says" summer to you. (Need not be about summer explicitly.)

It's a Beautiful Day, by U2.

3. A childhood summer memory

Summer was bad for me after about the age of 11. I think I suffered terribly, from boredom, loneliness. Heat stroke. In fact, it has taken me YEARS to find any charm in summer at all. Part of it was that I was always chubby, which makes the heat unbearable. Part was that my parents got divorced and I could get away with sitting in front of the TV for months on end because everyone was off at work.

One bright spot: When I was 18 I worked in downtown Newport trying to sell long distance telephone service to tourists. I loved my coworkers and we had a blast. We even talked our way into the Newport Jazz festival with a tank of helium and our MCI uniforms on.


4. An adult summer memory:

I am learning to cherish tiny moments. So for me, sitting on my bench, talking long distance to my dad and looking up to notice a squirrel passed out on the mulberry tree after having over indulged in overripe berries. (Think tanked squirrel).

Or lying in my hammock and gazing at the sky through the branches of the old silver maple.

Or watching thunderheads roll in from the west. Grabbing the kids and sitting on our front porch watching the storm.

5. Describe a wonderful summer day you'd like to have in the near future. (weather, location, activities)

Cool weather. Walking on a deserted beach. At twilight.

Sunday, June 24, 2007

It's a beautiful day!

Oh, blessed sacrament. I was so happy to take communion this morning after missing it last week. I can see, sometimes, how Catherine of Sienna wanted only the Eucharist for her meals.

The weather was stunning today, too. After church we piled all the bikes in the back of Nguyen's truck and drove to Bristol so we could ride the bike path. It was packed! We rode from Colt State park to the Audubon sanctuary and back again. Stopped for hot dogs at the town beach. Visited my mom in her new apartment. Had a nice dinner at a restaurant in Newport and topped off the evening by borrowing a fishing rod from a complete stranger and catching 4 blue fish off the Goat Island bridge. At sunset. In Newport.

The kids collapsed when we got home. Nguyen cleaned the fish. We are going to try smoking them in the gas grill tomorrow.

Thank you, Beloved, for the many gifts of this day.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Why I am a Christian, part 387

A friend came by for coffee this morning. She has been having a very difficult time with family issues. It would not be a stretch to say that her situation is causing her to suffer.

She knows I am a Jesus freak, and in fact, has been going back to church since I started talking with her about it. I know that it isn't an instant fix, but I also know that if she invites him to, God will help her through this painful time.

She is a Roman Catholic.

I told her: Your church does a particularly good job of helping to understand the role of suffering in our lives. John Paul II wrote an amazing encyclical about how suffering can be the doorway to salvation. Humans suffer. It is a common thing we all share. All of us at some point or another experience it. But because God knew that, he used his own suffering on the cross as the vehicle for redemption. Suffering will never be meaningless now. It always has the power to be redeemed through Jesus. People will fail you, but God never will let you suffer alone. And in fact, it is in your suffering that you reach out to him.

I think this helped her.

I have another friend who has been suffering from tremendous health problems for the last few years. One thing keeps leading to another and his health gets worse and worse. I keep thinking of Job.

But when I mentioned Job to him, recently, he laughed and said he was ready to move on to the psalms.

Of course! The psalms are much more of a complete picture of our engagement with God. We whine at him. We sing joyful praises. We thank him. Ask him to help us. Bow before him when he does. The suffering in the psalms is probably closer to what most of us actually experience because it is not unrelenting. We have moments or days or years of joy mingled in with anger or grief or loss. What the psalms teach us, more than anything, is that we must always turn to God.

I never really learned much about Buddhism. I read a few books, but at the end of the day, the idea of detachment just didn't work for me. I am a mom, after all. It seemed all too easy to detach if you were a monk or nun. But as a mom, detaching from my children seemed not only impossible, but undesirable. Unnatural. In the Buddhist scheme of things, my attachment to them will likely cause me to suffer at some point.

But what Jesus promises is that our Love, although we may suffer for it, will ultimately be the very thing that redeems us from suffering forever.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Last Day

Today is the last day of school. The kids wanted to ride their new bikes, even though rain is in the offing. I wrote thank you notes to their teachers and hauled out my dusty Huffy mountain bike that I bought at the thrift store a few years ago for $7.99. That's seven dollars and ninety nine cents. My helmet cost more!

I have forgotten how much fun it is to ride a bike. Around here, we don't have great biking areas since our neighborhood is surrounded on all sides by highway, river, huge 4 lane roads. But we cruise around in our little neighborhood and wave to folks who are working in their yards or buckling up toddlers on the way to preschool. The dogs are mostly confined and the squirrels know to get out of the road ahead of us. I know I am supposed to follow all the traffic laws, but in this small neighborhood, I get a little thrill when I fly through a stop sign on my bike. (Never when the kids are with me, of course!) I love the speed of being on a bike.

So, the bikes are dusted and oiled. The pool is open. We are heading to the library tomorrow for summer reading lists and packing our beach bag with sunscreen and hats.

Summer is here.

And I am feeling appropriately lazy.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Boom Boom

I went to my first drum lesson last night. I showed up at the Black Repertory Theatre with my djembe and ten bucks, feeling very shy. The teacher was friendly though. He is a young man from Mali, I think. There were three other students, all men. They seemed like they had been taking the class for awhile and were pretty good at following the rhythms.

I sucked.

As I knew I would. Not only do I not have natural rhythm, but it turns out that the physical act of drumming requires a kind of coordination that I apparently don't have. It's not even hand/eye. It's just hand. But you have to make your muscles do things that they simply do NOT want to. Like hit a bass note and then a slap all in one movement. I just want to pound the middle of the drum in 4/4 time and call it a day.

It turns out that in western Africa, the songs ARE the rhythms. There are rhythms for weddings and for funerals. Rhythms for celebrations and circumcisions. Rhythms for conjuring and for giving thanks. And people know them like we would know the wedding march or Pomp and Circumstance. It is the musical accompaniment of their lives.

In class we were learning 5 wedding rhythms. They seemed very complicated to me, especially when the teacher started playing the melody lines on the dun dun. I instantly lost track of what I was doing and started banging in all the wrong moments. Dear Teacher would then smile and stop the melody and get me back on track, patiently repeating the rhythm over and over until I could feebly follow along.

The other guys were generous about not rolling their eyes.

I regret to inform them that I am going to be back next week.

Ha.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Another letting go

Yesterday, at my former UU church, the minister that baptized me preached his last sermon before moving to his new church in Oregon.

We were greeted with many smiles and hugs. I recognized nearly everyone there. Knew everyone by name, as though I had never left. There only about 10 or 15 new faces. Everyone commented on how big and handsome the boys have gotten. They asked me how I was. Was I happy at my new church? Was it good to be back? I instantly felt the warmth that I loved so much about the place. It was like seeing family after a long trip away.

I was a bit surprised at how few people were in attendance. I didn't count, but it looked like there were only about 45 people in the pews. This on a day that was a significant milestone in the life of the church. Bell Street has lost a lot of it's members over the last year or so. I knew this, but was still, somehow, stunned.

I sat in a pew with my friends and started to notice how different the interior of the space is from my new church. Bell Street Chapel was built over a hundred years ago by a wealthy man named James Eddy. He lived on the adjoining property, and envisioned this as a place for the Providence Religious Society, a humanist organization, to hold meetings. The architecture, therefore, is decidedly humanist. The main room is on the second floor. People walk up a huge set of stairs to the second floor, where they are elevated above the world outside. There is no focal point in the chancel, except the wooden pulpit itself. Hense, the preacher becomes the sole object of attention. By contrast, most Christian churches I have been in have the altar in the center. Or a cross or image of Christ. The priest or preacher is relegated off to the side, which reinforces that they are NOT the main focal point.

Steve's sermon was a sweet farewell. It seemed to follow a pattern of prayer, beginning with what he was thankful for, followed by an apology for what he did or did not do (confession!) and winding down with his gentle suggestions for the future. (Intercessions?)

But somewhere in the middle of the service, I began to realize that I felt disconnected from what was going on. It wasn't that I was uninterested... it's just that it seemed so aimless for me without a clear focus on God. I became more deeply aware of the fact that, by design, the object of worship in a UU church is the church itself. The community. The covenants. The relationships. A few years ago, Steve, in a moment of bravery, described the UU church as one in which people milled around at the base of the mountain, congratulating themselves that they could choose any path to the top and all would be valid. But sometimes they never actually started up the mountain.

People drift from UUism. The average UU is only a member for 7 years. After those 7 years are up, they either move on to other churches or religious organizations or just stop attending altogether. The vast majority of the folks I have talked to who have left Bell Street in the last year have simply stopped going anywhere.

I have my suspicions about why this is so.

Going to church every week requires more than just will power. In the beginning, you go because you like it, or you want to be with people, you feel at home, or you get something out of it. But there inevitably comes a point when you get tired or cranky. Things don't seem to be 'working' for you. You might be burned out or tired of the same old sermons. A relationship goes sour. Same old same old. So, one Sunday, you lie in bed and read the paper and drink coffee, instead.

It happens in Christian churches, too, I imagine. But in a Christian church, the focus of the experience is not just feeling good or hearing a great sermon or seeing friends or doing good works. It is about worshiping God. God who deserves, in all times and in all places, to be worshiped. It is that drive to worship that pulls me out of bed at the unholy hour of 7:30 every Sunday morning. If left to my will power alone, I too, would be drinking coffee and reading the latest home and garden section.

It is laying aside our own desires so we can focus on what is pleasing to God. Letting go, just for that morning, of the focus on ourselves and what we would normally want.

My whole experience of God while at Bell Street was one of a deep longing. Finding God in a UU church is a little like playing cat and mouse. He is there, of course. But you don't get to talk about him or drop to your knees to worship, or sing his name or taste him. You sneak him in, now and then, but he is always just beyond your reach. I grew to long for him so powerfully. I would sit in the sanctuary during a service and lose track of what was going on, gazing out the window at the trees and the sky, catching glimpses of my beloved in the clouds and leaves and birds. Longing. Painfully longing.

The first time I went to a Christian church after leaving Bell Street, I just sat and wept through the whole service. Here am I, Lord. Finally. Finally I can bow down and worship you, my Beloved.

If that longing for worship and connection to God isn't present, what keeps people coming? What draws people out of bed and into the complicated world of group relationships?

I don't know.

I am tremendously grateful for having discovered my longing for God at Bell Street. But I realized yesterday that I will never truly feel at home there, again.

Beloved,

I pray for all the souls who long for you and have not yet found you.


1. Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it, mount of Thy redeeming love.

2. Here I raise my Ebenezer; here by Thy great help I've come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger, interposed His precious blood.

3. O to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love;
Here's my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for Thy courts above.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Now I can stink even louder



At Grace, we have done a little drumming lately.

Last week, before the service, we sat out on the front steps and played African and Caribbean drums, much to the surprise of the passers by. We were quite a spectacle, three almost middle aged women and a young man. The young man in question was, unquestionably, the most serious of the four of us. He might have felt a little pressure to be good since he just got back from a trip to Africa. The rest of us were free to stink. People in cars slowed down and rolled down their windows to get a better look. People walked up and talked to us. One man, an older guy, who lives at the shelter I think, said that he used to be a percussionist in a jazz band. (Maybe he can join us next time.)

So, today, I bought a Djembe from the Guitar Center. It is an inexpensive one with a goatskin head and a wooden body. It is African style, although it seems to have been made in Indonesia. I brought it home and played it for awhile before lunch, realizing that my neighbors get to hear every misstep... every bad strike.... every off bang.

I was shy with the kid in the music store. I suddenly felt very middle aged and dorky. I mean, what was I going to say? "I am buying a drum so I can play with my friends at church?" How totally lame. So instead I asked a few technical questions and pulled out my Visa card. "I'll take it."

Friday, June 08, 2007

Archaeology

I have been worried about my messy house lately. I can't seem to find the motivation to keep it clean. I get distracted by things like blogging and naps and lying in my hammock thinking about God. I spend too much time in my head and not enough with a sponge in my hand.

But the truth is, I get nervous in immaculate houses. My kitchen tools gig brings me into them once in awhile. Places that are not only fastidiously clean, but look like no one lives there. I have been in homes where there were no personal effects. All the stuff was purchased, new, from Pier One or some design store. No mementos or artwork. No books or papers or stuff handed down from family members. Sterile. It makes me nervous. It seems unreal to me.

And while it is true that my house could be cleaner, it is also true that unless you are an anal retentive neat freak, you will probably feel at home in it. You will know who we are by the stuff you see on the mantle. You will read the story of our family from the artifacts on the china cabinet that my dad built when he had his first home. It is painted cranberry and stained, now, with thirty years of smoke and grime from our various wood stoves and fireplaces.

My kitchen floor is like an archeology dig: Maybe not pot shards and middens. But the corner of a leaf of yesterday's lettuce or the remnants of a lemonade spill.

Dig in my sink drainer: Green onion, garlic skins, some acrylic paint or a pencil nub.

Our walls are painted earthy colors like cowslip yellow and ochre orange. hanging on it we have an antique Ames shovel, a photo of my dour great grandmother, paintings from friends and kids.

A collection of small animal skulls sits on a shelf.

There are a couple of crosses, too. A ceramic one from the dollar store in the kitchen. A barbed wire one from Arizona in the dining room. And on the mantle, a slate circle with a chi rho symbol carved into it. My dad made it for me.

Price Rite

After dropping off my kids this morning, I went to Price Rite, the local discount grocery store, to pick up some things.

4 heads of lettuce, for starters. I can't afford that at the regular store, and we go through so much of it because of the rabbit. So I pack my cart with romaine at $1.09 a head.

The meat aisle wasn't a big success. I found boneless chicken breasts for $1.99 a lb. But alas, no ground lamb. Or any lamb, for that matter. And the beef didn't look good.

As I was standing at the meat case wondering what to make for dinner, an employee pulling a big cart was backing out of the double doors to the back room.

"You guys f#$%ing suck..." he laughed. Then he realized that I had heard him.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't realize I was already on the floor"

I smiled at him.

"That's a fine way to say good morning" he joked.

"Let's try it again: Good morning!" he said.

"Good morning!" I laughed.

And it is.

Thursday, June 07, 2007

$48.20

That is how much the lady at the used bookstore gave me for a big box of my tarot books and decks today.

I have been debating about what to do with these for awhile now.

Do I dramatically burn them in my driveway?

Ebay?

Give them to friends?

Give them to my rabbit?

I have really struggled. But in the end, I decided to sell them to the used bookstore for a tiny fraction of what they were worth.

I packed the box up a week ago, combing through my bookshelf for all the books that didn't resonate for my anymore. One by one I pulled them out, blew the dust off and packed them carefully into a big cardboard box. These are the remnants of who I used to be. The decks, especially, were ones that I loved. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel a twinge of wistfulness as I packed them up.

So why get rid of them? Because I know that I don't need them anymore. My joy is found in God. My bible is all I the 'oracle' I need. If I am troubled, I take my troubles to Jesus. I don't need to know what is coming around the bend anymore. All I need to know is that when I get there, I will be in God's presence.

I don't want to talk about your future, either. Now, if you are hurting, rather than try and give you answers, I will pray with you and for you. I will point you to the one who has healed me. I will give thanks to him for saving me and ask him to comfort you.

So why sell them? Why NOT get rid of them?

Because they were stepping stones on my journey towards God.

Monday, June 04, 2007

Fall before the Lord

Over and over it mentions in the Bible that when people encounter God, they fall on their faces to worship him.

I believe it.

For a couple of years I had a centering prayer practice. I did it very badly. While I was supposed to be emptying my head so I could invite God in, I would often dwell on other things. Some days it was mundane stuff like the groceries or bills. But once in awhile I would meditate on things from my past, with an eye to understanding a situation with more love or compassion or religious clarity.

And every once in awhile, I would experience such a thunderbolt of clarity it would feel like God was holding my head and turning it in the direction he wanted me to look. It felt like he was in the room with me, comforting me when I had to face some truth that had been plaguing me for years.

At those moments, I would feel physically compelled to drop out of the chair I was sitting in and kneel on the floor, face down, the warp and weft of the rug I was on, pressing it's impression into my bare knees, the marks of the wool knots on my forehead.

I would want to lay there for hours, sometimes. But I never did because I would grow impatient with the pain and get up, too soon.

The passage from Revelations yesterday described the elders of Heaven doing the very same thing: Falling on their faces before the Lord. They cast their crowns in front of Him.

What would that mean for me? What crown can I cast before him, I wonder? My biggest crown might very well be my own self. It is the most precious thing I have. Perhaps it is to be tossed in front of God, as a gesture of awe and thanks.

Sunday, June 03, 2007

God's flair for the dramatic

I was reading from Revelations at church today.

In the middle of the reading, a huge thunderclap boomed overhead. The church practically shook. So I paused and waited for the sound to die down before continuing:

Reve 4:5 Coming from the throne are flashes of lightning, and rumblings and peals of thunder, and in front of the throne burn seven flaming torches, which are the seven spirits of God; 6 and in front of the throne there is something like a sea of glass, like crystal.

Around the throne, and on each side of the throne, are four living creatures, full of eyes in front and behind: 7 the first living creature like a lion, the second living creature like an ox, the third living creature with a face like a human face, and the fourth living creature like a flying eagle. 8 And the four living creatures, each of them with six wings, are full of eyes all around and inside. Day and night without ceasing they sing,

"Holy, holy, holy,

the Lord God the Almighty,

who was and is and is to come."

9 And whenever the living creatures give glory and honor and thanks to the one who is seated on the throne, who lives forever and ever, 10 the twenty-four elders fall before the one who is seated on the throne and worship the one who lives forever and ever; they cast their crowns before the throne, singing,

11 "You are worthy, our Lord and God,

to receive glory and honor and power,

for you created all things,

and by your will they existed and were created."

Saturday, June 02, 2007

My kitchen tools gig last night was with some friends from my old church. It was great to see them again, and meet their friends.

I almost cried when I saw their son, who is now 16 and towers over me. I spent a wonderful couple of days with him and the rest of the teens just before leaving Bell Street. We went on retreat, the minister, youth leader and I. We walked the labyrinth and journaled and cooked together and played poker, hung out at the beach at night and recognized in one another the deep longing for spiritual connectedness. Dear Boy was 14 at the time, and interested in Buddhism. I had just inherited a small Thai Buddha statue from my grandmother, which for some reason I chose to bring along on the retreat. And then, for some other reason, chose to give to Dear Boy. He was a little blown away, I think. I had other gifts for the other participants, including the young Christian woman I was mentoring through the coming of age program.

I asked Dear Boy's parents about his spiritual life. Is he meditating? No, they said. He is too into girls and sports right now. They haven't been going to church lately.

Sometimes I forget I am getting old. But I am reminded of it when I see kids growing into adulthood.

I pray, oh Lord, that Dear Boy doesn't bury his longing for you for too long.

Friday, June 01, 2007

Hopes and Dreams

As it is graduation season, the RevGalBlogPals are doing a Friday Five on hopes and dreams for the future. From the past. In the present.

Here it is!

1. Think back to the time you left High School, what were your hopes visions and dreams for your life/ for the world?

I wanted to move to Japan and teach English to the children of rich business men. I also wanted to be a filmmaker.

2. Have those hopes visions and dreams changed a lot, or are some of them still alive and kicking? (share one if you can)

LOL, none of those dreams panned out, and really, none of them have survived. My interest in things Japanese faded after a disastrous semester studying the language at the University of Hawaii. And filmmaking, by necessity, took a back seat to earning money. I never really did understand the eyeline match, anyway. I would have ended up making weird western Ozu-like films that no one would have wanted to see.

3. Hebrews 11:1 " Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. " Comforting, challenging or frustrating?

I really have no clue what the first part of that quote means. How does something that is hoped for have substance? The second part is pretty challenging, too, as it is very difficult to find evidence for that which isn't seen.

4. If resources were unlimited, and you had free reign to pursue a vision what would it be?

My answer to this has changed dramatically over the years! Today, I believe it would be to organize some kind of worldwide program for kids of all faiths to get together and build relationships. I think that might just be the hope of the world. In a small way, my church is already doing this and I think that it is kind of a miracle.

5. Finally with summer upon us- and not to make this too heavy- share your dream holiday....where, when and who with...

I dream of going to the Holy Lands.

Really, I have to say, though, that the biggest of my lifelong dreams was to find joy. And that has been achieved, in spades.

Thanks be to God.