For the love of orchids

I haven't found a good name yet for the condition I suffer from. Well, suffer isn't exactly right either... it's more like an overwhelming desire that threatens to have victory over common sense, but when common sense wins the thwarted desire turns to pouting or obsession.
Floral obsession. Orchid Lust. Garden addiction. Flower fixation. Green thumb weakness. Potted-plant junkie. Take your pick, they all describe me to some extent. The thing is, my weakness for plants -orchids in particular- is not harmful to me, just to my savings. It is a rather innocent habit/addiction to have, and could be considered a hobby or fascination. Some folks have a weakness for gambling, narcotics, technology, television shows, soda pop, you name it. Me, I see a beautiful amaryllis, tulip, calla lily, orchid, etc. and I am hooked! Enchanted!
I love to help things grow, to watch cloaked beauty emerge, to discover the delights of something easily overlooked by the rest of the world. Someday, I wish to have a piece of property where I can garden to my heart's content, where I will never run out of space to plant things. A place with trees, fresh water, birds to coax to bird feeders, space for two big dogs to run around and kids to explore, trails to walk and places to get lost in thought.
For now, I am confined to the present container gardens indoors and the few bright things that come up outside in the spring. Among my potted greenery are four orchid plants, each a different variety. Two have bloomed once before (a year ago or more), and two remain that have not yet flowered. One of them, however, now has a flower stalk with two buds and the promise of more to come. I am thrilled! When I got this orchid it was a mere child, bought from the grower down the road. The mature plant on display was such a beauty that it was love at first sight. My own little Cymbidium is soon to remind me why I have invested two years in its care...Two years of anticipation. When it flowers, I will put its picture here as if I were a proud parent and this my first child.
Now, with winter well on its way and the weight of many exhausting days pulling me towards melancholy, this unexpected orchid bud is a living piece of hope. (If it dies, I will be quite depressed!) It may seem silly to fuss about such a thing, but think of it in metaphors; it is like a first kiss that one never knows when it will be given, or how beautiful a moment that will be.
Thus, for the love of orchids and other flora I pay a pretty penny and invest little bits of myself in their growth, their presence like that of good friends.
The store has a new shipment of orchids in, all of which are tempting (bonsai trees too, but they are a bit too expensive to trigger compulsive spending along with desire), but I will have to choose only one.... It would probably be better to go back to the grower in the spring and get some more babies for less expense. But right now, common sense will probably lose to Orchid Lust. And I will be delighted with the company of a new friend, a new jewel to care for. I will have to strategize about a place to put it though...there's a shortage of open space not already occupied by a green tenant (or books).
A note to the future Mr. Right: if you arrive at that romantic crossroads that calls for a dozen roses, get me an orchid instead! If it lives for 15 years, imagine how often I would think of you...

Expectations

The holidays.
When mentioned, the thought of Thanksgiving and Christmas can bring joy to some, dread to others, and stress to many. I realized that familiar traditions create these expectations, whether it be the expectation that you must make/eat a turkey dinner, or the expectation that having many family members together in one place is bound to cause fireworks. Traditions can bring the comfort of good times, things to look forward to, or possibly bad memories, or empty formalities that no-one seems to want to break out of. It all comes down to how meaningful the holidays are to you and your kin, because your expectations will only be as high as the amount of significance you've invested in those traditions and in the people you will be obligated to spend time with. Families will have their dysfuctions, but if there is something in common that draws all together, then there is at least potential for positive expectations. After all, if you don't have anything worth celebrating, you've gone to a lot of fuss and effort to celebrate nothing.

Some folks do break away from the herd occasionally, if a thing that "we always do" is something that causes dread instead of holiday cheer. For instance, an accquaintance I saw at the store before Thanksgiving told me of her mode of polite rebellion: if the big dinner is at her house, she is cooking ham. It's easier and she likes it better. If Significant Relative #2 prefers turkey, well, dinner will be at that person's house and that individual will prepare it.
As for me, I have fond memories of holidays past. Of course, I have not yet been in charge of cooking the turkey...

Contact

Ever stop to think about all the things you touch during the course of one day? We use our hands for so many things: lifting, holding, grabbing, comforting, sensing texture, writing, typing, washing, using a fork or chopsticks, and so on. I can also use my hands for playing the piano, for conducting, and today for scanning groceries at rapid speed, bagging them like puzzle pieces, typing in produce codes, and handling more money than most people will see in a month (unless they have a good paycheck, entirely in cash). Hands do a lot of work for us; they are the part of a person’s body that connects with the world most often, communicating with gestures, relaying information about the environment, and coming in contact with other people.
Touch can hurt or heal, and of course be significant or insignificant. When I am working at the store, I end up brushing hands with people a lot when I take cards or money, give receipts, and pass them bags. That sort of insignificant touch is somewhere between “eww” (germs), and “sorry” (I didn’t mean to invade your personal space) and “whatever” (it’s nothing). Healing touch, on the other hand, is a remedy for isolation as well as being good for the physical being. For me, healing touches are things like petting the cat (or dog, if I get the chance), wearing comfy slippers after painful work shoes, hugging friends, a visit with the massage therapist (painful, but good pain), sitting on good furniture after a day of impersonal and uncomfortable break room/desk chairs, a pat on the back from a coach that means “good job,” and of course any sort of touch that is built on a connection of love and trust. What kind of contact could we have, if we didn’t have hands? How many marvels would have gone unmade, and scientific advances undiscovered? What lonely, limited creatures we would be, if we didn’t have touch.

Self-discovery

Today was one of those rare days off from work, so after church services and some household chores (including sparring with windshield wiper blade refills, a small thing that can nevertheless make me feel inept –probably because it has to do with cars), I went for a short walk. The smell of winter is on the air, my breath is visible in puffs, and my face gets numb from the chill. Yellow leaves cling to branches and dust the ground with gold, and the dusty pink sunset spreads above the water while I look out over it from the quiet hillside.
Walks help me think, air out my mind of everyday things, absorb some beauty, and let me focus more clearly on deep thoughts. I’ve had a lot of deep thoughts lately, as I am being stretched and made more self-aware. In some ways it is strange to talk of self discovery; after all, if there is one person we should all know well, it is ourselves. However, I am learning that the future self I am getting closer to with each day I live, is a self who has the same unique skills and interests but who is putting them to use in a way that is more satisfying and more aligned with what God intends for me. It is a mystery that transports my mind to the future with many possible scenarios, and it is a promise that keeps some hope alive in me for those days when I feel stuck in the wrong place in the world and can’t wait to be free of it. Pieces of that future self are occasionally moving into focus, as I am reminded of what I love to do and do well, even though I do not know the answer to “what for” just yet. I know that I am a visionary with lots of ideas, a musician who loves to make others happy with a good performance, and a writer who does not yet know what she should write.
As for self-awareness, I daresay there are many people who have not taken enough time to examine their own strengths and weaknesses, personality, and purpose. Some have a job, hobbies, and a profile on MySpace perhaps, but do they discover what they are made of, and made for, a little more every day? Are they defined by what they do, or can they say “this is who I am, so this is what I do”…? I hope that someday when I say “I am a ______” I can say it with the conviction that I have found my truest purpose, and that I do what I do because I love it. It will be interesting then to look back and understand more clearly the things that have shaped my identity.

Uplifted

Today was clear and sunny, warm even, so I walked to Taco Time and had lunch at a table outside, admiring the autumn leaves and the fresh air. Tonight the nearly-full moon has a halo, and it followed me home after a good choir rehearsal. I haven't been to one for two weeks, since I was sick, so it sure felt good to be back and singing high Es and Gs again. I even got to try a quartet/solo part, which went reasonably well; I would like the chance to do a small group solo like this, but there is one other person who is also wanting to try the part. I guess we'll see what happens. I was even happier when we got through all of our pieces in time to practice "O Magnum Mysterium," right before the rehearsal ended. This is a piece we performed two years ago, and is back in the program, to my great delight. It is a beautiful work by Morten Lauritsen, and it never fails to uplift my spirits, not to mention it is a joy to sing. The reverent hush when the piece has come to an end is tangible, and both singer and audience feel that they have just taken part in something beautiful. It's almost as if we have been transported for a moment, back in time to the Nativity of Christ, and we are creating a halo for the King of Heaven whose humble beginnings among the animals is such a wondrous mystery...

[Listen to a sample of the piece here: http://acappella.colormaria.com/HAC98272/HAC98272%5EO_Magnum_Mysterium.mp3 ]

I have found that, being a musician, I get much more time to enjoy the Christmas season, because choirs begin preparing months in advance. Then when other folks have gotten their tree, the lights are up, and they are ready for music to get them "in the mood," we singers provide it. Music traditions of Christmastime have formed some of my strongest memories, and create a link to centuries of music-makers who have also told of the long-ago Nativity.
It may not yet be December, but I confess that I have already sat by the fire with a hot drink, and listened to the unforgettable Mannheim Steamroller arrangement of "O Come O come Emmanuel."
There are so many meaningful Christmas songs that people are no longer familiar with, that are getting forgotten as PC holiday or Santa songs take over and every pop star has their hyper-embellished version of a traditional carol. I just wish that the average person could have the chance/be persuaded to hear a good choir, leave behind the commercialized holiday cheer for awhile, and be uplifted by something that more genuinely feels like Christmas.

The gift of today

Today I was blessed with a day off from work, and thus the gift of time at my disposal. This peaceful autumn day has helped me to feel a bit more human, more refreshed, more satisfied that I got to do something I wanted to do before ten o’ clock at night, and that the day has not been taken away from me.
I am once again suffering from respiratory illness, so today’s rest was a welcome reprieve from my shift yesterday, spent standing on hard floors with aching muscles, a sinus headache, a need for Kleenex yet being stranded on a check-stand without it, and wiping down tables while beautiful Fall sunshine streamed through the windows. Today I slept in, dressed in ugly-but-comfortable clothes and running shoes, and went without makeup. I then enjoyed a special treat: a leisurely cup of coffee that brewed while I talked on the phone with my mother and I drank in silence while watching the birds at the birdfeeder outside the window. I have missed the birds; I am glad that birdseed was on sale, so now I have restocked and they are back again. The cat watched them wistfully from the back of the couch, after I caught him stalking the birds by the rhododendron bush and brought him inside.
I went for a walk, and realized how much I have missed the simple pleasures of fresh air, running downhill, looking out over the water, and absorbing the beautiful nuances of the season. People are mowing their grass before the rain returns, someone burns some scrap wood that gives off a spicy-sweet smell, and some folks stand in their driveways to chat with the neighbors. The brilliant colors of autumn are everywhere, in the deep reds and vibrant yellows of maples, apples falling out of trees, pumpkins in the fields, summer flowers putting on a final show, the red rose hips of summer’s wild roses hanging in tangles over fences, and white snow-berries clustered on bare branches.
What a blessing to be surrounded by such beauty, to have the chance to enjoy it! How often I have taken it for granted before. Even washing the dishes -while Dvorak’s 9th Symphony plays on the radio in the background- and planning next week’s lessons become a small joy, as I can do it without a time-frame that obliges me to dash off to another commitment. I feel like a caged bird who has tasted freedom, for one glorious day. I have a pretty good life by most standards, and sometimes wish I could be content with being a working stiff. But days like today remind me of what I am missing and awaken desperation to break free, to do something different, to find my way home to…what? Maybe to a day well-lived, a day that I can look back on with satisfaction and not feel like my efforts are in vain and life has just passed me by a little bit more, denying me the chance to taste autumn in the air and reflect on the simple gifts God gives.
I don’t want to end on a negative note, however. These small splashes of beauty, reflective moments, and valuable time refill the reservoir of hope and give me some strength to pick up again and keep going, like the tree growing out of rocks in the middle of the water. I am on a journey to somewhere, to some place that is just beyond my grasp; I guess I just need to have patience that God will get me there in His good time. After all, today is a gift, that's why we call it "the present."

(This post probably fits the category of “tangential exposition!”)

Neckties

Neckties are amazing, confounding, and create an instant statement. It is amazing that by simply changing this one accessory, a man can make one shirt into several outfits. Blue shirt + black tie with blue and silver designs. Blue shirt + purple and gray striped tie. Blue shirt + green tie. White shirt + any tie... the combinations are only limited by the number of ties a person possesses! Ties also have this invisible aura of classiness, intelligence, and allure when used correctly. When used incorrectly (i.e. tacky, mismatched, paired with casual wear), the statement can be rather repelling. Ties can also be subtle or loud communicators of personal favorites (sports teams, Garfield, or a Scottish clan crest, for example), festive nods to holidays (flags, Christmas lights, etc.), or indicators of someone's personality.
The classiness and intelligence alluded to by a tie may occasionally be a deceitful cover-up, a fraudulent masquerade that cleans up the outside with nice window dressing and false advertising. However, I am of the opinion that if one dresses like a gentleman, the expectations created by a nice necktie will wear off on the owner at least a little bit. Of course there are some chaps who are every bit as nice as their necktie suggests, even when they are not wearing one. There is a difference between smart wearers and nice, gentlemanly wearers as well. Smart wearers are never without a tie, because their profession expects and demands it (and it can also hint at money and education). Nice wearers will endure a tie for a special occasion or for work, but they can take it off without feeling incomplete...as if they were walking out the door without socks or pants on.
Last but not least, we come to a special category of tie-wearers: the female wearer. Dress codes in places such as boarding schools (Hogwarts, even), food service, and other professions often require women to wear ties. I fall into this category. For me, I felt almost guilty purchasing a tie, as if I were violating some sacred ground of male fashion, or were heading into that questionable territory of cross-dressing. My satisfaction soon replaced trepidation, however. I found that ties can be ridiculously expensive, and yet unbelievably enticing in their broad spectrum of designs and colored array. They can be as confounding as they are attractive when you are a) trying to tie it in a hurry, b) trying to make the back end shorter than the front end when cinching the knot, and c) happen to be short enough that the "one size fits all" claim barely prevents the tie from reaching past your waist. Nevertheless, the tie completes my uniform, and lends its invisible charms to make a less than glamorous job a bit more attractive simply by making me look put together.
An interesting invention, neckties. It is a shame that so many have yet to discover their valuable qualities!

The restless mind of a working stiff

Poor, neglected blog. My life has become more complicated since I last visited you, and spare time a luxury. I am now "moonlighting" on weekends as a checker at the grocery store, in order to ease the financial stress of the shortfalls from the salary of my "real" job. The phrase "working stiff" is now clearer to me: I work so much that my muscles ache, I suffer from sleep deprivation, and even the voluntary commitments of choirs and exercise begin to feel taxing. In short, there are days when I feel like I am in a near corpse-like state, with rigor mortis of the mind and the body setting in. The thing that saves me, but that also suffers the most, is my restless mind. Opportunities to reflect, to absorb beauty, to read, and to write are very rare, and these constrictions on my personal life chafe at my creative-contemplative nature.
However, I think I can stick with it for a school year, if I have an end in sight to keep working towards. This restlessness is not due just to work, work, work, it stems from something deeper. I love to learn, to discover, to pursue many interests, to find out more about everything. While I certainly specialize in certain areas of study, there are many possibilities that I long to explore. I have talked about this with one of my sisters; we have both noticed this about ourselves. We get bored with routine. Some people will work their whole lives in one career, choose one thing that defines their contribution to society, happily work away, and be content. These are the surgeons, first grade teachers, grocery store managers, and others whom we need and depend on, and who will be doing that same thing until they retire. However, some of us aren't cut out of that cloth. I have a degree and two jobs, but I don't feel like I am at a stopping point where I should rest on my laurels and pass my days forever the same. I have had a chance to experience predictability, a steady (if not weak) paycheck, gain some valuable skills, and make a difference for a little bit of humanity in this small corner of the world. But it is time to move on; there is a silent call, an invisible thread, drawing me toward new discoveries, possibilities not yet explored, skills that can be put to use in different and better ways. If this restlessness is not remedied in the near future, it will decay into discontent, disappointment, and hopelessness, all of which cheat my students of the fully committed teacher they deserve. The gypsy in me says "your work here is nearly done...time to move on."
I may always be this way, because there are so many things that interest me, and different chapters of my life may contain different careers, work, and study. It reminds me of the opening lines of the tv show The Pretender: "There are Pretenders among us...geniuses with the ability to become anyone they want to be..." I am no genius, but I have enough curiousity to take me places. I am not going to let the common expectations of society limit me to a box; the world is a garden beyond the box, and the world is changing; blessed are the flexible for they will not be bent out of shape! Who knows, maybe someday I'll join Cirque du Soleil...
Until circumstances change, I will continue to fight to keep my creative juices from being completely drained along with my energy, but posts may be a bit more sporadic for awhile. Regardless, my restless mind contemplates nature, poetry, people, and the future while my stiff muscles bag groceries and my tired voice coaxes children to behave properly.

The tree and approaching autumn

As you can see, I have changed the layout of my blog page a bit, thanks to a layout template from pyzam.com and a few tweaks I made myself to suit my perfectionist preferences (though it turned into a mini-course on how to find my way around xml code...I'm from the now old-school of html!).
I love the photo of the tree growing out of a rock in the middle of the water; it communicates serenity, assurance, strength in the face of certain adversity, and a fragment of beauty where you might least expect it.
I found a spot just the other day that is a temporary escape from the demands of here and now, a nature trail that weaves back into an old evergreen forest, a place that exudes that same feeling of peace and perseverance as the "lonely tree" photo above. I took a few photos (two are included on the sidebar to the right), which don't do it justice.
Today it rained, the kind of fresh rain that tells of coming Autumn, school starting, sweaters, fallen leaves, woodsmoke, and apple cider. Soon it will be September, and I will be pulled back into a cycle of activities and busyness that challenge my inner reserves of calm, contentment, strength, and faith. I hope that this lonely tree picture reminds me often of what is beautiful, true, everlasting, and where the source of my strength lies.

Hugs

Hugs are like emotional food. They give a starving person something to go on for awhile, or give a content person the comfort and security of knowing that all is well.
I didn't discover how nice hugs could be until I moved into a dorm where I was surrounded by nice girls who gave hugs on sight. They didn't just say "hello," they also said "it's good to see you" with a hug, which made the greeting more complete and genuine. I used to be a bit stand-offish, or touchy, when it came to hugs, because I was easily embarassed and not sure how to react. However, the hugs-on-sight girls helped cure me of that, and I have since become more of a "huggy" person. Some things you can say with words, but a hug often does it better: "I've missed you," "until we meet again," "I appreciate you," "sad to see you go," "I treasure your friendship," and so on.
I've learned from past experience that if you never show the affection or goodwill you feel for someone, that person may pass away or simply pass out of your life and you will have lost the chance, it will be too late to hug them and communicate "I am thankful for you...you are always welcome here."
So, to all my friends and family, think of this as a virtual hug for you until I can give it in person; I am thankful for you!

Scents of memories

It's a windy evening... the aqua color of the water as the sun sets behind it is disrupted by ruffled waves, and on the horizon is a band of silver mist where the sun catches moisture particles in its grasp and illuminates them.
Inside, where I have retreated from the wind (breaking my evening porch-sitting tradition), the lingering scents of the beef soup that I made for dinner and the bunch of fresh-cut lavender I hung in the kitchen earlier give the house a comforting, welcoming smell.
It is amazing, the power that smells have of triggering memories and giving that special dimension to experiences. When I smell pine trees and damp earth, I remember the California Redwoods and many camping experiences. When I smell a certain kind of soap, I fondly remember someone who used it. When I smell cookies baking or soup cooking, I remember my mom (and her cooking). When I smell ethnic cooking, auto exhaust, and salty sea air, I recognize the smell of Seattle.
Have you ever noticed that people's houses all have a unique smell? A mixture of the laundry detergent they use, the hand soap, the pets (or lack thereof), the things they keep inside, the age of the house, and of course the people themselves.
I wonder what my house smells like to a visitor? That could be a dangerous question, but right now for me it smells of summer wind, beef soup, lavender, and home.

Time Capsule -a memoir of sorts

Today I opened a time capsule…a vessel containing no relics, simply extraneous pieces of this and that from times past. Those things left behind were not planned or planted, just forgotten for a time. Now, the contents awaken memories briefly or stir faint curiosity, as I sort through them all and prepare to lay this time capsule to rest, to say farewell to my old van called “Lurch.”
Lurch has character; that’s why it has a name. However, Lurch was forced into retirement a year ago (the result of many years of service and many maladies, topped off by an unfortunate incident with a deer), and has been camping out in my driveway awaiting removal to some Grey Haven of automobiles. Thus it came about that I finally confronted the odious task of clearing everything out of Lurch, so that it could be properly disposed of (though “buried” almost seems a more fitting term).
Lurch and I have been through a lot together, more than I have time to recount here. However, it seems fitting to mention a few of the qualities and memories associated with Lurch, as a parting tribute.
I started calling the car Lurch when I was irritated with the way it shuddered when I put it in gear, and puffed haltingly and indecisively up hills (“I think I can, I think I can…aw heck, maybe not…”). Eventually it became a term of endearment, and derisive fondness.
As per tradition of the family curse, the passenger side window could not be rolled down, and all of the other doors had something wrong with them too. The side door stuck, and had to be pulled at the top; the back doors wouldn’t open with a key (and now not at all), and the driver’s side door met up with a concrete post in a parking garage, leaving it concave enough for a draft to sneak in around the edges.
The air conditioner can’t be used when idling, and the heater takes 15 minutes to warm up (about the time it takes to get anywhere). The tape deck broke, but the radio works –thank goodness.
“Accelerate” is a foreign concept to Lurch, but “gradually less slowly” is more familiar; “brake” is something that happens once the pedal is depressed almost to the floor, and “steering” is somewhat akin to guiding a meandering bowling ball or lazy goldfish.
Lurch’s face has the most scars: the passenger side headlight is smashed, the blinker hangs by a few wires, and the wheel well is bent. The front grill is missing teeth, and hangs forward in a lopsided fashion overlooking the dented bumper. All that was rather recent, really; before those two unnamed events Lurch was quite good looking.
The back windows display stickers for Dutch Bros. Coffee, MENC collegiate, and all four years worth of campus parking permit stickers. There’s also a rear license plate holder given to me by one of my sisters, which reads “If I go any faster, I’ll burn out my hamsters!”
I have been locked out, had to jump-start, tow, and put the fear of the mechanic into Lurch, and although rather unreliable, Lurch still got me to the important places where I needed to go (most of the time): school, home, late night organ practices, classroom observations, student teaching, trips to the store, new home, new work, visits to friends…
Yes, Lurch smells the same, feels the same, and still feels like mine. But now I bid farewell to Lurch, gratefully acknowledging its years of service on my behalf. Ah, it’s a gutless wonder, but it has heart…or so it seems. It has held pieces of my life, and that is enough to move me to sentimentality such as this!


Inside the time capsule that is Lurch, I found these items, to name a few:

¬ the rain poncho from my college graduation, that I used to keep my cap and gown less wet than they would have been without it
¬ blue sunglasses, now broken, that I got on a trip to Victoria, Canada with my best friend and her family
¬ two pairs of driving gloves, including the black pair that left dark smudges on my face the night of my senior recital
¬ a bag of mail from the summer after graduation
¬ old church bulletins and sermon notes from one of the churches I attended in Seattle
¬ two half-used bottles of hand lotion
¬ no less than three containers of oil (+ a filter), which I would never have changed myself
¬ several Dutch Bros. Coffee window stickers
¬ an old purse (no money, unfortunately)
¬ a bag of hair accessories that I stashed in an odd corner and forgot about, during one of my moves out of a dorm room
¬ jack and tire iron (since the old set broke, and Dad replaced a tire at least one time that I can think of, when he visited me at school)
¬ jumper-cables, which saved my bacon on MANY occasions
¬ remnants of a survival kit, containing wool blanket and MRE food packets (in case the car broke down somewhere desolate… a definite possibility)
¬ ancient owner’s manual and paperwork belonging to my grandparents, plus all maintenance records from when Lurch belonged to them. Also my own insurance slips.
¬ Pieces of the front grill that got bashed out by the deer
¬ Mutilated front license plate… I’d rather not go into detail about that episode, let’s just say I was mad at Lurch for a long time over it
¬ small American flag that I hung from my front visor after 9/11
¬ two cassette tapes I recorded with my (then) favorite songs and played in the tape deck until it broke

Rescue and Rebirth - Journeys of a Purple Plant

Today it has been beautiful outside, the way summer should be, so I spent a good deal of time enjoying it by puttering around doing some outside chores. One of those was to repot my two purple plants (whose proper name I have not yet discovered), and to plant another one that had grown roots from a cutting.
This plant is amazing, and it is almost like a pet to me. I say this plant, because it did originally start as a singular entity.
Once upon a time, long, long ago –I think it was about 2002- I noticed a very attractive “volunteer” plant that had sprung up in the pot of my mom’s Gingko tree. I wasn’t sure if it was a weed or something that had snuck into the soil when the tree was elsewhere, but I decided to rescue it and transplant it to its own pot and save it from eventually being weeded. It was a spiky, fuzzy-leaved plant, that turned a deep purple when it got enough sunshine, and eventually it grew longer into stalks that would reach toward the sun as if to embrace it. When a stalk was mature, it would grow a tip that would flower with delicate pink petals; the flowers would each last only a day, but soon another would bloom from the tip, sometimes even two at once.
The Purple Plant went with me to college (sophomore year, I think) and adorned my windowsill, unhappily turning pale green in the winter but reviving again in the spring. It lived with me through two years of dorm rooms, a summer in a duplex, and a year in a very dark and very old apartment. After graduation, it went with me for the summer to my sister’s house, where it almost met an untimely end. Fortunately, it proved hard to kill, and a sunny spot in my classroom (once I got a job and moved) helped it to recover. It has now passed two years with me in that post as well.
Last year, it was flourishing by summertime and needed a bigger pot. As the stalks got longer, they were prone to break off more easily; it was by saving those broken stalks and sticking them in water-bottles that I discovered how easily this plant could be grown from starts/cuttings. Thus, when I repotted it, the Purple Plant also had a younger clone of itself in a smaller pot.
This brings us to today, when I planned to repot the two and plant a third. The leaves had been turning pale and limp at an alarming rate, and I was hoping a change of soil and perhaps change of location would revive it. But alas! When I removed the plants from the pots, I discovered that some nasty bug had infested the soil, leaving behind caches of eggs amongst the roots. After analyzing the situation, it seemed to me that the best way to rescue my dear Purple Plant, was to amputate. Into two vases and a pitcher went selected cuttings, as I clipped the most promising stalks and removed dead leaves, hoping to give these pieces of the original a second chance at life. I potted Purple Plant the Third, now that its vase was full of its ancestors/cousins from Purple Plant I and Purple Plant II, preparing to grow new roots. Soon, I won’t be able to tell anymore which came from which; the roots will intertwine within each vase, each stalk becoming part of a larger family once again, and I will plant them into whatever pot they fit best. It will be my dear Purple Plant again, all four or six or eight of it! More to love…

It got me to thinking, while clipping new starts and throwing away the diseased roots, I did this all on good faith that the starts will take root and I will have saved the plant essentially by killing it. This is what it must be like for people with cancer, or who need an organ transplant: they kill off part of their body in hopes that the new bone marrow, or kidney, or whatever it is, will take hold in time to save them from completely dying away.
Sacrifice…Rescue…Rebirth…New Life.
I can’t help but draw a parallel to the Christian life. We humans are like this Purple Plant: beautiful, but slowly dying as we are eaten away inside by a multitude of infestations. A new body won’t save us, nor will a new place to live, a new job…if we are re-potted, we’ll still carry the disease with us. “Save us!” we must cry to the Gardener, who comes with the pruning shears. It may hurt, being cut away from our roots, our human nature, our eternal disease. But ah! Here we are in fresh water, free from those old infected roots, free to put out new ones and have a second chance at life. Sure, we’re still part of the same plant, and will be prone to get infected again, but we’ve been reborn! Someone else was sacrificed, thrown into the rubbish heap like old infected roots, so that we could have a second chance at life; a new kind of life, one that will last like a Purple Plant flowering forever under the tender care of a Master Gardener.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has passed away, behold, the new has come…” -2 Corinthians 5:17

“Then as one man’s trespass led to condemnation for all men, so one man’s act of righteousness leads to acquittal and life for all men. For as by one man’s disobedience many were made sinners, so by one man’s obedience many will be made righteous.” –Romans 5:18-19

Heritage

I spent a hot but enjoyable day at the Highland Games yesterday, mingling with crowds of people in traditional Scottish garb and watching various events: sheepdog trials, athletic contests, Highland dancing, and of course the pipe band contests. After getting a good dose of bagpipes, I perused the stalls of vendors and visited some clan booths, to try to track down the origins of the one Scottish name in my family history that I was familiar with. While doing so, it struck me again that I know so little about my own heritage, and that my family tree is so diverse that at times I feel disconnected from any specific ethnic roots. At events like these, I see people who are strangers but are nevertheless bonded together by a strong sense of identity in their cultural heritage, and I envy them for that. I have found things to admire in many cultures’ arts and histories, even if they are not a part of my ancestry, and I believe that helps me to be a more open person and less likely to be prejudiced. But still, anyone who has been on the outside might agree with me that one wishes to belong, to have a group to identify with. It helps to be reminded by events like this, that even if it is only little pieces here and there that can be identified as Irish, or Scotch, or German, or Dutch, or whatever, I can take pride in that little bit and be spurred on to find out more about it.
Do you know what irritates me? On surveys and questionnaires and the like, where I have to select my ethnic background, the categories are so general. Asian. African-American. Pacific Islander. Latino. Arab. White. That gets me. Just because I’m white-skinned doesn’t mean I have more in common with a white person from Norway or the Ukraine than I do with an African-American person with black skin. Often there are more specific categories for “Latino” as well: Mexican, Cuban, Puerto Rican, South American, etc. This is all fine and good, but then why can’t we white people select the strands of our ancestry? It probably has something to do with the fact that the emigration of my ancestors occurred at least two or three generations ago, but it would still be nice not to have to settle for “white.” Yes, I’m an All-American Mutt, but for me “white” includes Irish-Scotch-English-Swedish-German-Dutch (did I miss any?), whereas for a friend of mine it might include Polish-French-English-?-?
It looks like “diversity” is actually starting to become a blending of many races and cultures, less distinction, more dilute, unified more by nationality and ideals. In many ways, this is “progress,” progress away from racism and prejudice, but it makes me wonder about the world in three generations from now (especially here in America, where cultural traditions are not as strong, and holidays are more commercial than celebration of historical events). Will people know about their roots? Will they still celebrate with traditional dress, food, music, dancing, and art? Will they know what they are a part of, and be willing to remind the rest of us, so we can enjoy those rich traditions too?
I called up my mom, with bagpipes sounding in the background, and asked about our Scotch-Irish branch of the family. What she could tell me sounded complicated, so she said she would bring some notes on our family tree with her, when she comes to visit soon. Thank goodness. In the meantime, I am enjoying some things I bought, featuring Celtic knots. I have always loved the beautiful puzzle of them, and the ancient feel of that art. So even if I am not full-blooded or even half Irish or Scottish, I am glad of that little I do have to identify with; I now know what the tartan and family crest of the MacArthur clan is, and by golly at least I’ll have something good to wear for St. Patrick’s Day!

A bunch of cool numbers

What happens only once a year, for 12 years, and then not again for 88 years? A triplet digit day! A day like today: 07-07-07. Possibly the last triplet digit day in my lifetime will be 12-12-2012 (Mom's birthday!), unless I live to be 118 years old and see the next one, 01-01-2101. You know what will be a really cool date? December twenty-first, 2112 (or 12-21-2112). The first four digits are a mirror image, and the second four are a reverse mirror image! If I were a mathematician, I could have a heyday with this, but I won't. Instead, I wish you a happy seventh day of the seventh month, of 2007!

Gullet Adventures

My car and I, we found ourselves being swallowed.
The creature’s gullet was a tumult of strange appendages whipping about, and our passage was punctuated by bursts of liquid that noisily covered us. As a particularly long set of intestinal tentacles slapped against the windshield and dragged across the roof, I felt claustrophobia tugging at the edges of my control. Fortunately, the gurgling and slapping about was soon over, and we were then pulled through a rather windy stretch. Possibly gaseous fumes…
Finally, the ordeal was over and we were deposited back out in the sunshine.
“I know you enjoy this and look much better for it,” I said to my car, who glistened happily as it proudly sped me towards home, “but I still get a funny feeling every time we get digested by the ‘Soft-n-Foamy’ carwash.”
“Well, that’s what you get for not cleaning me yourself.” it reminded me. “Besides, I kindof like those tentacle-things…it’s like getting a massage.”
“You’re weird. But you do look nice.”
“Thanks. But I’m not the weird one here…”

The Panther

The thick brush parted noiselessly for the velvet paws, rain from the leaves dampened the thick fur, and the fading light reflected in the golden eyes of the lithe shadow. The sun had made a brilliant sunset as it slipped below the edge of the clouds, tinting the undersides of their rain-heavy grayness with pink, purple, and gold. In the dimming light, the Prey had come out, sniffing the freshness of the air.
The grass stirred, and an inquisitive face peered through to look at the Hunter, its whiskered face displaying a mixture of the curiosity and bewilderment belonging to youth and inexperience.
“What are you doing back in here?” asked the newcomer.
“I am a panther. I’m hunting, of course.” answered the veteran.
“Can I be a panther too?”
“Look here, young Whipper-Snapper, you’re making so much noise, you’ll blow my cover. Besides, you’re white and gray; the Prey would see you a mile off. Why don’t you go play somewhere else.”
The young one sulked for a moment, watching the Panther assume a crouching position, eyes glued on the approaching prey.
“Can I watch, then? I want to see what this hunting stuff is all about.”
“I suppose.” said the Panther magnanimously.
The young one rustled back out of the hiding spot and sauntered a short distance away, and plunked down to clean his tail.
The Prey approached, plucked some raspberries from the bushes near the Panther’s hiding spot, and eyed the youngster. “You tagging along and pestering your big brother again, you big kitten?” queried the tall, two-legged creature, bending to pat him and tweak the twitching tail. “I suspect he’s around here somewhere.”
“Busted.” thought the Panther. “I knew he’d give me away. Time to break cover.”
As the Prey turned and walked back toward its dwelling, the Panther dashed through the bushes, rustling wet leaves, then out into the open. He quickly closed the distance between the Prey and himself, his goal within sight. The door opened, began to close, but the Panther dashed through at the last moment, and slithered around the Prey’s legs. Victory! He peeked out from under the coffee table, and, plying all his charm, purred as he wound himself around the two-legger’s feet. The human sighed and picked him up, a most undignified but pleasing thing, and scratched him behind the ears.
“Silly cat,” said the human. “Off with you!” She tossed him unceremoniously out the door and back into the damp night.
“Curses, foiled again.” thought the Panther, stalking down the driveway. “Perhaps I’ll find some moths to sport with; chewing on them may relieve me of some disappointment.”
The big kitten, twitching as though his shadow were goading and tickling him, bounded up alongside the Panther. “What happened in there? I didn’t dare follow.”
“Torture, unspeakable torture;” answered the Panther solemnly; “you’ve much to learn before you have courage enough for the Hunt.”

Giving Back

A few days ago I finished reading “The Freedom Writer’s Diary,” a compilation of diary entries by a group of teens who, with the direction of an inspiring young English teacher, found a way to respond to the violence, prejudice, drugs, and broken families that threatened to deprive them of a future. They found people in literature who shared similar circumstances, such as Anne Frank, Zlata, the Freedom Riders, and others.
It reminded me that I have led a charmed life compared to such, and despite the challenges and sorrows I have faced, there is much I take for granted. I don’t have to worry about being shot when I walk out my door; there isn’t graffiti anywhere on my street; gangs don’t hang out at bus stops waiting to pound someone; I don’t have an abusive father or boyfriend; I’m not dependent on drugs to get me through the day. Here, kids can ride their bikes down the street, neighbors wave hello, people have yards to plant flowers in, and the sound of ambulance sirens wailing in the night is fairly rare (and usually doesn’t mean someone has been shot).
Not too long ago, I felt that since I had opportunities and experiences in life that a lot of kids don’t have, I should give back to society in some way, and give others the chance for Opportunity. By teaching (even if it wasn’t by teaching “essentials” such as reading, math, or science), I felt like I was giving back in some small way, giving kids the opportunity to find something comforting, a voice through music. Some of the kids have found their “voice” in it, something special that is their own, that they enjoy or are good at, and many will find their voice in something else. I still feel this way, but have come to a better understanding lately that teaching is not my strongest gift. I do well enough, and have become a stronger person because of it, but teaching is not what I do best nor is it an end goal. I have wanted to go to graduate school ever since I discovered my truest gift, the thing I do best and most enjoy doing.
Is it selfish of me to want this still, would I be stealing from humanity by leaving my current position and my students to a potentially disappointing change? Or is it worse to live with the heartache of unfinished business, a dream yet unfulfilled, a gift silently waiting to be set free? Have I been caging the butterflies, hiding the sunlight behind a dark curtain, and stealing off to a secret garden, all until the time drawing near when it is right to release, unveil, and unlock?
All pretty metaphors aside, I have been troubled by these thoughts until recently. I have written about wishing for things past and remembering my truest self, and wondering where such longings lead me. I have had an epiphany of sorts since then: if I live in the past, then I stagnate in the present and bring bitterness to the future. However, of those things in the past that I love the most, I should take action to ensure that they are also a part of my future or else they will be lost, given up. This is the paradox then, that in order to not lose what I hold dear, I must let it go. Let it go so that God can give it back in a new way, if He chooses.
Today in Sunday School, a guest teacher was introducing what will be a series on the Spiritual Gifts. He talked about how a person shouldn’t try to serve/minister equally well in all areas, because someone else has a strength in an area that you are weak, and vice versa. Afterward, when I had gotten to thinking about what my strongest gifts may be, I think God may have spoken to me in one of those ways that we commonly think of as sudden insight, or “it dawned on me.”
I may be serving others in a role where some of my weaknesses are strengthened, and my strengths made more mature; however, these and all my past experiences are tools to help me be more effective, more complete, and more ready for my truest calling, a calling where I can use my gifts/strengths to give back to humanity even better than I am now. There is a teacher out there who will take my place because that is his or her gift, and I do not need to grieve leaving behind something good for something of an even greater good. Perhaps these experiences are making me better able to discern what that true calling is, although I am still only seeing pieces of the puzzle at a time.
Like the teacher who helped her students become the Freedom Writers, I too want to help people find unexpected beauty, hope, voices from history speaking wisdom, the value of each person. I just won’t be going about it in the same way. I love the writing of Anne Frank, the music of Beethoven, the disciplined art of movement in gymnastics; perhaps my legacy will be discovered somewhere between them all.
I guess this blog may be my own diary of life as it unfolds, a daily discovering of puzzle pieces as they are fitted together.

Backyard Habitat

I've seen a certain sign posted here and there in people's yards or by their driveways: it says "Backyard Wildlife Habitat." One such example is a bit of property where the house is down by the water, and the rest from there to the road is still trees and underbrush in a natural state. Another is a cute little house with a well maintained garden that must be the envy of the neighbors, with well-placed bird feeders qualifying it for the "wildlife" clause.
Another place I know used to have a strip of trees shielding the house from the road, a little extension of forest that could be considered a "wildlife habitat." Then, the people eliminated their privacy and potential wildlife habitat in exchange for a view of... the road. How ironic (and stupid) it would be, I thought rather angrily, if they cut down those nice big fir trees just to plant some dinky little shrubs or fruit trees. Well what do you know, they are now the proud owners of a deforested plot that boasts two measly saplings and...grass. You can get grass anywhere! Come on, people; trading 100-year old trees for grass, what a waste. But I digress.
My yard could qualify for a "habitat" of sorts, although I'm not sure about the wildlife part. A more accurate label would be "Natural Plant Life Reforestation Habitat." You would never know that I had everything weeded and neat two months ago. The blackberry vines I mercilessly chopped have reincarnated with a vengeance. The dandelions are thriving, along with various species of thistles (which I figure I will leave a few for the finches to eat the seed, then I will get some wildlife to go with the habitat!) reaching as high as my head and fraternizing with the peonies. There are Queen Anne's Lace stalks growing amongst the raspberries, possibly creating an affront to the neighbors as it grows several feet above the fence. I am delighted to discover ripe red wild strawberries hidden between the leaves of long-since-bloomed bulbs, and apples are beginning to grow on the trees out back. My landlord mowed the grass not too long ago, but the edges have not seen a weedeater at all this season, so tall grass waves in the breezes. If I left it all alone for a year, reforestation by natural plant life would be a definite possibility. I'm not sure the neighborhood would be impressed, though. As soon as the sun returns for more than an afternoon at a time, I will begin the process of taming the jungle and transforming it. Metamorphosis of wild plant-life habitat into quaint, tidy, unremarkable, civilized yard. At least I won't be cutting down trees to plant grass.

Pants, Professionalism, and a Return to Innocence

During a weekend in the recent past, I had the opportunity to stay at home and thus dress as casually as I wanted. I opted for a pair of green warm-up pants from one of my old gymnastics uniforms, a t-shirt and sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. This made sense since I was going for a walk/jog, after all, but it was also to escape the bondage of the pants I typically wear during the work week. Those pants have been at odds with me ever since my workouts made my legs too muscular and my waistline yet undiminished enough for them to fit correctly.
As I walked and enjoyed the ease of movement I was feeling, I remembered the unstylish but athletic wardrobe phase of my life that lasted through my first year of college. I made the transition from the gymnast lifestyle of leotards, loose clothing, and tight hair-dos to the student lifestyle, and finally to the student teaching period where we were all forbidden by our professors to wear jeans during our internships. Pressed shirts and slacks, uncomfortable shoes, and more makeup; I made every effort to dress professionally (and at least “old” enough that I couldn’t be mistaken for a high-school student), and breathed a sigh of relief when I graduated. Then I got hired by a school district, and my wardrobe expanded to include some shoes that were tolerably comfortable (and several that deceptively look comfortable but, in fact, are not), some shirts that do not require ironing, and some “nice” jeans. After struggling to maintain the “no jeans” ideology, I chose other battles and allow myself a day or two during the week to be moderately more comfortable –but still with nice shoes, of course.
Don’t get me wrong, I like to dress up every now and then, be moderately fashionable, and of course as a performing musician try to look sharp in concert black. But with summer vacation in sight, I look forward to putting away the “professional” clothes for awhile, and dressing comfortably.
I wish I could wear my warm-up pants to work, but alas, I am not the PE teacher. These pants belong to times when I feel most like myself: times when I remember the great things I used to be able to do and the feeling of getting ready for a competition in my special leotard and sweats; these are times when I feel free to be unstylish but comfortable, times when I feel like I am not trying to meet some standard or be the kind of person I must be when I teach.
Some might call this nostalgia, or longing for childhood, and in some ways it is both. However, it is also a stirring of hope mixed with loss. I have hope that I can be disciplined enough to get back to being a shape I feel comfortable with, and hope that I can find a way to be involved in the world of creative movement that I miss. I also feel loss though, a loss of some part of my identity that gets masked in professional clothes and behavior, a part that, like Peter Pan, refuses to grow up. You see, even though I grow older, I don’t forget how it feels to do a back-flip. I don’t forget the thrill of defying the average, the status quo. I do not feel at home in an average waistline, an average professional wardrobe, and an average workout on the treadmill. Perhaps this makes me a rebel, or super self-conscious (or overly analytical, which I admit), but I wish I didn’t have to sacrifice that part of my identity in order to fit into the world of working adults.
This reminds me of a song, “Return to Innocence,” (by Enigma) that I once did a dance/tumbling routine to a long time ago. I like the song, and despite its New Age philosophy overtones, I find that it holds some truth for me. Even though this may only be a pair of comfortable warm-up pants, nevertheless, they urge me to return in memory to that time of innocence, to remember what it feels like to be myself, and to then let that creative and carefree energy spill over into the ordinary.

Longing for Neverland

I came to a realization recently, a rather startling and perhaps belated realization for a teacher: I like playing with kids more than I like teaching them. I am also a nicer person when I am not exiled out in the portable, cramped by the inadequate blocks of time, and weighted down with the responsibility of producing quantifiable results called "progress" and "education." Some of the teachers have expressed amazement at my patience in certain situations; I am working to be more firm when necessary, but whenever I raise my voice or speak without compassion to a kid, I regret it for days. There are certainly times when discipline is needed, but I sure don't like doling it out.
On the flip-side there are the occasions when I am having such a good time, singing and joking with my little choir or playing a singing game with second-graders, that I feel almost guilty for wishing that more of our learning time was like this: not a tug-of-war with the teacher forcing students (or trying to convince them that it is worthwhile) to participate, behave, and get something out of the experience, but rather a cooperative effort to discover something fun, beautiful, and worthwhile together.
All that being said, I am not giving up teaching yet. It does make me wonder though, how much my preference for being less of an authority figure and more of a peer mentor (or playmate?) is influenced by my own childhood experiences and whether this will change. I have always disliked conflict, been somewhat shy, and liked sharing my opinions as a follower rather than a leader. But in some ways, this lends me a special sympathy for the underdog, an eye for the shy kid, an understanding of the socially inept, and a kindred spirit with the creative thinkers and self-motivators.
Perhaps someday I'll start an arts camp: I'll put other people in charge of running it and directing the exploratory classes, so that I get to be immersed in the middle of it all with the kids.
Maybe I'm just some kind of modern-day Peter Pan who has grown up and longs for the irretrieveable joys and freedoms of Neverland...

Solitary musings

Today I stayed home, enjoying a day that I was not required to be anywhere. I celebrated by staying up late last night to finish one book, and spent the majority of today re-reading another. The laundry isn't done yet, nor the lesson plans, but my imagination has been revived.
It is a luxury I know, to get to choose what I want to do with a day like this and not be interrupted.
It was pleasant. It was solitary. It bordered on lonely.
I noticed that some swallows now had some noisy offspring nested in the roof of my carport, and Mr. and Mrs. Bird were repeatedly flying past my windows on their mission to feed the little tykes. I also heard a game of hide-and-seek going on next door; it must have been grandkids of the elderly couple who live there.
After finishing the book, I decided to take a walk to straighten my body from the immobile, seated position I had been molded into by the couch. It was a bit past nine at night, but I confess I enjoy taking walks at times of day when most folks are either working, eating dinner, watching tv, or doing family stuff.
Several stars were just becoming visible, and the slice of moon accompanied by Venus was already high in the sky. I was shadowed by the two neighbor cats for a block, but they disappeared back into the shadows as I walked the short loop back to my house.
I don't mind walking in silence, it allows me to observe, to think. I don't even mind walking alone. However, to walk with someone is preferable, just as it is nicer to share a mealtime, whether with conversation or companionable silence.
Aloneness is not the same as loneliness. Loneliness is when the solitude hurts, when the absence of someone is negative rather than positive. Aloneness, or solitude, is having the bed to myself and enjoying it. Loneliness is having the bed to myself and wishing it were otherwise. Solitude is a quiet house when I need the quiet; loneliness is when a quiet house reminds me that no-one is there to notice when I come and go.
Companionship -the antidote to loneliness- is the presence of someone else making coffee in the morning, having someone to wake you up when you sleep through the alarm, someone to help get things off a high shelf or lift something that takes two to lift, a person to make you laugh or to let you rant, someone you wait for or who waits for you to come home, a source of a welcome hug when you need it most. Simple things, really, but things that I notice more now that I no longer live with a roommate or parents. Especially the hugs. There are a lot of things I can do for myself, but that is not one of them.
From my observations of others my age, it seems that many are so constantly with someone, that they do not know what it is like to be without someone. To be without someone for a time, I think, helps a person to know themself better and to value togetherness more. The value not only of the sweet and tender romantic kind of togetherness, but also the household- and garden-variety of togetherness that can demand a person let go of selfishness and petty preferences and enjoy the benefits of a shared life.

Human Cocoons

I’ve tried to take a photo of the sky on several occasions, to catch a beautiful sunset or rainbow in digital immortality. But, more often than not, the expanse is marred by the web of power lines stretching every which way alongside the roads and over hills. Out in the more rural areas they are less rampant of course, but on the average suburban street, one cannot see the sky without also seeing the lines bringing electrical life to our dwellings. Telephone, cable, internet, and electricity; whether buried or strung up above, we depend on these connections for our daily living and with them cocoon ourselves in strands of modernity. Like lifelines to our IV drips, the power lines feed us our high-speed diets of communication, entertainment, and electronic living, and we gobble it like hungry caterpillars.
Above us, the power lines; beneath our feet, concrete and asphalt. Spread over the earth like frosting hardening into a shell, an exoskeleton of humankind, the paving of our streets, sidewalks, parking lots, shopping centers and freeways bring us in touch with each other and more distant from the natural beauty being pushed back, subdued, and slaughtered around us.
Life is easy, convenient, and fast inside this cocoon. I am not saying that it is wrong to be so. I am simply observing the state of things, and cannot help wondering whether we have become so used to being caterpillars that we forget there is a world beyond the cocoon, waiting to welcome butterflies. As we continue to wire and pave our world, we lose touch with its beauty, grow increasingly numb to its absence, and finally, become content with a man-made environment that knows no Creator but us. This is why I grow weary in the city, weary with longing for natural aesthetics.
I am thankful I live where I can still walk among trees.

Belief -an analogy

It struck me recently that, culturally, many Americans don’t believe in God, the spiritual realm, or the importance of faith, because they believe only in themselves: the reasoning powers of the human mind, the scientific method, and proof that requires no risk to believe in, no act of faith. Believing in something as timeless as God is considered by some to be old-fashioned –a throw-back to something people used to explain the forces of nature before there was science, to lean on as a crutch for their weaknesses before there was democracy and moral relativism, or even as just the leftovers of the social/political structure of the Church. For others belief in the Holy Spirit may be dismissed as just another spiritual option on the menu of the New Age pantheon of enlightenment, and Jesus as one of the great teachers alongside Buddha, Mohammed, and others.
So, to the enlightened, free-thinking, scientific modernist, I pose this question wrapped in analogy: Do you believe in the internet?
Bear with me for a minute here. One interacts with the internet via screen, keypad, and whatever other high-tech gizmos enhance the experience. Physically, the internet exists only in the hard drives of some computers –servers- and is accessed by other computers via the hookups necessary (modem, wireless, cable, etc.) to tap into the network of sharing known as the World Wide Web. If you took apart one of those servers, put one of its microchips under a microscope, and looked really hard…would you be able to see all the letters and numbers of code that are the guts projecting the mirage of the internet? I’m no tech-whiz, maybe if you viewed a microchip at some astronomical magnification, you’d see something. The point is, the thing you hold in your hands is only the shell, the body if you will, that the internet resides in; it is not the internet itself. Not to mention, the internet is too big (and getting bigger every time someone generates an e-mail, company website, or a blog post…but that’s another topic) too fit in one computer; it is in many computers around the world.
So it is also with the spiritual life: it is housed in bodies everywhere, accessed daily, yet cannot be seen, touched, or dissected out of us. The spirit of each person has a “webmaster,” and it is either God or some power other than God (Satan, sin, or the natural self/human nature). When we surf the web, we choose where we want to go, what we want to see/hear/find/buy/generate/communicate by interacting with it. When we live, we determine where our spirit goes –and who its webmaster is- by the choices we make.
The analogy starts to fall apart here. C.S. Lewis stated it better (in Mere Christianity), by describing life as the process by which a person’s spirit is shaped and made more perfect in preparation for living forever, if one is a Christian (this is a very basic summary). Back to my analogy, if a person is his or her own god, then that might look something like a website (the spirit) that anyone can post anything on, can be edited at will, has no privacy or legal protection, and the purpose of which is vague and uncertain. The webmaster Self has to determine what stays and what goes, how to react to spam and viruses and hackers and such, without any guarantee that the site will stay afloat or receive any help from someone who knows what’s going on. If the webmaster is God, then a person has 24-hour tech support, a legal defender, a content editor, a framework supervisor, antivirus protection, password encryption, etc. all wrapped into one, overseeing the website of one’s physical and spiritual life. This is starting to get corny, but I think the metaphor can have one other twist as well.
If a person is blindfolded, and has no way to see the internet –much less touch, smell, hear, or get any sense of the context of it- that person might say “I don’t think there is such a thing as the internet. I have no proof of its substance, no way of documenting that such a thing exists. I only have your word for it.” However, that claim by one who cannot see or access the internet does not negate the fact that it does indeed exist, and many are participating in its existence. In this spin on the analogy, the internet represents not just the spiritual life but more specifically a spiritual connection with God via Jesus. The blind person could access the internet simply by choosing to trust that it does exist, resolving to give up past unbelief, and by entering the password. Choice: faith in God. Password: Jesus. Result: unlimited access to God via the Holy Spirit, and thus a changed destiny and a life under constant upgrade toward a new standard. If you are searching, there is no Google here, but there is prayer. And a whole lot more.
So, do you believe in the internet?
Do you believe that the blindfold can be removed?
Or are you vainly searching through physical hardware for proof that God does or does not exist?

Life in the 4th dimension

We are all familiar with our world of three dimensions –height, width, and depth, those realities that can be measured, quantified, and physically proven to exist. Recently, however, there has been a phenomenon developing on earth: an additional dimension in which people function, find identity, and experience an additional form of existence. This additional, or fourth, dimension is one that is like a pop-up book, all of it flat but popping out with imitations of reality that invite us to linger and satisfy our curiosity at least.
Do you know what I am talking about? You are experiencing the 4th dimension right now. You are on THE INTERNET, or to be more precise, the World-Wide-Web.
In some ways, the internet is a parallel existence, an existence streaming from our consciousness and out into the realms of cyberspace. There we may shop without walking aisles, be bombarded with advertisements without opening a newspaper, catch up on breaking news without the commercials, check the mail (5 times a day if so inclined) without walking to the box or waiting for the postal worker to deliver it, and research anything from the price of rice in Tibet (if you can read the language) to the details of your next vacation getaway. You can even get sick, if you don’t stay immunized against those nasty viruses, or get lost in an “unsavory part of town” if you follow the litter trails of money-launderers and perverts. More importantly though, in this 4th dimension, communication over long distances is made possible like never before, because in this dimension space is relative. Distance is only the time it takes you to follow a link from one page to another, to search for the person’s MySpace page that you want to find, or to sign in to your email or instant messenger. Here, we can be next door neighbors with friends one hundred miles away, family in the next town or state over, and strangers across the world in other countries; we can also talk silently to the person sitting across the room from us, who is also engaging in cyber telepathy! In this 4th dimension, we often meet the insides of people before the outside; there is safe anonymity in walking around without being seen, talking without being heard, and leaving artifacts behind for someone else to find. However, this facelessness is like holding hands in the dark, like playing with paper dolls instead of real playmates, and like seeing music notes in front of you but never hearing the music out loud -you must form its true substance in your mind. Facial expressions, tone of voice, gesture, location, smells, and shared experience are the human depth missing from the 4th dimension, the door between neighbors is shut. So perhaps it really is a two-dimensional experience after all, but interactive –like those “choose your own adventure” books.
The Internet is an amazing thing, full of possibilities. The world is getting smaller, and we are getting closer to virtual reality all the time. But if that time arrives when people can fully immerse themselves in a world that exists beyond the physical, who will choose to live the majority of their life in their mind, in that 4th dimension, and who will draw the line and say “That was fun, but who and where am I really? I think I’d better go for a walk on real ground, go see some friends in the flesh, enjoy their presence in quantifiable proximity, and go home and play the piano!”

The forgotten orchard

There is a road I traverse every day, along with many hundreds of other people going about their day-to-day business. Along that road are patches of land here and there, still in their natural state, without the typical installments of houses, commercial buildings, or tidy little rows of shrubs dotting cedar bark mulch. There is one patch of wildness in particular that caught my eye, recently.
Fruit trees are in bloom right now, so those trees with blossoms stand out rather vividly against others wearing fresh spring green or deep evergreen foliage. This is how I noticed that, among the grove of trees on this particular piece of land, there were several in bloom. The grove was not neat and orderly, rather, it was slowly being reclaimed by the surrounding thickets of vegetation. I wondered if the fruit trees had been planted by one of the Norwegian settlers during the last century, at the time that much of the old growth forest was cut down and floated south to build Seattle, leaving fields where cows would graze in their place. Farms and fruit trees, people and progress. But now, this orchard has been neglected, forgotten. Unlike the old forests and so many other young trees nearby, these have not yet been cut down, their roots pulled up and burned, the ground dug up and covered with pavement or houses, erasing all memory of their presence. Instead, the forgotten orchard is being accepted back into the wildness that still lives, that is now surrounding it and softening the man-made order that once tamed the forest and pushed its beautiful savagery away.
As I pass by this forgotten orchard, I wish that I were a child again, free to explore unhindered by knowledge of private property boundaries. If I were small, walking barefoot, and uncaring of the reality that home was several miles away, I would leave that road traveled by anxious commuters and find an opening in the hedge.
Hidden by briar bushes and trees several times my height, I would find the footpaths used by the deer and nocturnal creatures, and follow them through the forgotten orchard. The sound of automobile traffic would fade, the calls of robins, blackbirds, finches, mourning doves, and flickers would emerge, and the lulling, gentle sound of breezes rustling through leaves would wipe away the demands of time. Finding a sun-dappled patch of grass, untouched by mowers for many seasons, I would lie in that nest and gaze up through the blossoming branches of the fruit trees. Come summertime, I would find the best trees for climbing, and discover what fruit ripened on the branches. I would find the best places for hiding from intruders, and for sitting to watch the wild things. If I were to lie on my stomach, knees bent and bare feet in the air, chin resting on folded arms, still and silent, I might see the fairies come out to play. Some with wings like butterflies, bold and colorful, others with delicately veined and glinting wings like dragonflies, they would emerge from their secret hideaways in the forgotten orchard. Sitting on toadstools to tell stories, sipping nectar from flowers, dancing in the soft green moss, or singing Olden Faerie songs, they would exult in this place where my imagination brings them to life, as it drinks its fill from the magic of a beautiful, blessedly forgotten grove.

Stargazing

The sky is clear tonight, and I was able to see the stars as I drove home and walked out to the mailbox. Venus shines brightly near the pathway the moon travels, and other constellations stand out against the depth of space. A few nights ago I saw the moon as it was rising, and although only a sliver was illuminated, the rest of it was also faintly visible. The orb of it seemed to be rising out of the sea, only to be plunged back below its surface in a matter of hours.
I witness the passage of Venus, and as my mind wanders, I realize that one of these stars could be dying in a brilliant supernova right now, but we on earth will not see it for light years...how many generations into the future? This starry night, with frogs singing from their secret places in watery drainage ditches, brings a memory to mind. It is a memory not specifically of one time, but of many starry summer nights through the years. I remember something that has become a sort of tradition. On warm summer nights in Oregon, it would be very hot and stuffy inside the house still, and so I would sit outside on the deck before going to bed. I would be barefoot, the deck would be rough beneath my feet, and the uneven boards would creak a bit. I would pull up one of the dirty old patio chairs, brush the fallen madrone bark and leaves off of it, and sit looking up at the sky. Often, one of the dogs would be there too, laying at my feet or leaning against my leg as I slowly run my hand over its soft ears and fur. Breathing in, I would smell the familiar dry scents of summer: the madrone tree in the yard shedding its leaves, the faint smell of a barbecue, the breezes coming from the direction of the river. Sometimes my dad would join me outside, contentedly smoking a cigar in peaceful silence, while we looked up at the stars. If I waited and looked long enough, I might see a shooting star, or at least pick out a satellite making its way steadily across the horizon. The wind would stir the dilapidated wind chimes, and the song of crickets would match the flickering of the stars. Bats would come out, fluttering silently overhead, their shadowy acrobatics unnoticed by most of the sleepy world.
I had some of my best conversations with Dad out there, talking about the past, the future, the present, music, and ideas until his cigar had burned low (and I had tapped the ash off at least once), the breezes had cooled me, and the mosquitos had become alerted to my presence. I would pat the dog and stand up, old boards groaning as the deck adjusted itself, and take one last deep inhalation of the starry night before going in to bed.

Wishing wells

I have spent quite a bit of time observing other people's romantic relationships, learning vicariously from their mistakes, and spinning philosophical thoughts like this around and around. This is one observation of many:
Some folks approach their relationship as if the other person were a wishing well, and they cast their dreams, opinions, desires, ambitions, and destinies into that person and stand looking over the edge, waiting for their wishes to come true. But those things aren't just pennies or fish food that get cast into the wishing well, they are pieces of a person's heart, future, body, and spirit. If the wishes don't come true, those pieces have to be regrown, they can't be grafted back on...one must start over. They were doomed to failure if they wanted to fulfill Self at the expense of the Other, or even if they simply neglected to give up some wishes in order to receive the valuable things the other person could offer.
Sometimes this trial-and-error experience may be the only way to learn who and what is NOT right, so that one can recognize what IS right when it comes along. Which makes me wonder: when it is my turn, will I step up to look into the well of another person and only see my own reflection, waiting for me to throw my wishes in, or will I have the strength of spirit to look deep enough for long enough to find what is truly below the surface? Will I search for hidden treasure and find it, in spite of the weeds, the skeletons, and the pieces of other people that have been left behind? And if I find only skeletons, will I have been smart enough to bring a lifeline to pull myself back up and out of that well? And while I'm on a roll with the rhetorical questions and metaphors, what would someone find if they came to me not seeking a wishing well, but a well from which they could drink in order to stay alive? Would they keep coming back to me for more, because there is enough substance and depth that there will always be enough encouragement, ideas, compassion, prayers, and conversations to nourish the soul? Can I share the Source of my wellspring in such a way that, whoever draws something out of me will get a helping of the Source, too? Finally, can I be humble enough to clean my own well regularly, so that my analysis of self and others is filtered fairly and with good judgement?

Sky at my feet

An ordinary parking lot
black and glistening from recent rain,
littered with gravel, scraps,
and marked by many muddy footprints,
suddenly holds portals
to the great beyond.
Magnificent puddles
spreading like small lakes
across the dirty asphalt
mirror the sky above,
and I am falling up into their depths.
Treading carefully
I navigate like a bird
across the sky lying near my feet,
for I hope to not disturb the water
lest I step through the portal,
and shatter the sky into a million pieces.

Enchanted by Sky

Why am I so enchanted by the sky?
I am enchanted
by its living poetry, poetry in motion;
recreated, repeated, refreshed,
history replayed, yet moving toward the future,
an epic unfolding each minute
as new verses are written,
progressing since time was begun
and this sky was set into motion.

I am enchanted by this poem called Sky;
its words are colors and textures:
blended blues and grays of storm-clouds,
soft purples and pinks of sunsets,
warm brightness of sunrise and late afternoon,
layered hues of rainbows,
bright blue of a vast expanse,
deep black of night adorned by starry gems
in the poem called Sky.

In the poem called Sky
the rhythms are weather and seasons:
winds traveling to unknown destinations,
clouds shifting as if in metamorphosis,
rain drumming its ancient patterns upon the earth,
snow dancing in silent swirls of white,
days folding into the embrace of night,
mornings blossoming again from its depths,
the constellations revolving like an ever-turning wheel,
the moon finding and losing itself in shadow,
planets glistening in and out of sight,
birds floating aloft in these streams of rhythms
in the poem called Sky.

Perhaps only angels
can speak the language of such divine poetry,
or perhaps it is known
only to God.
Nevertheless, this poem called sky
speaks to me,
and I am enchanted.

Impressions and Impressionism

Today is a beautiful, colorful day. The colors are not just the kind that you see, but also the kind that you hear, smell, feel on your skin, and feel in your heart.
The neighbor’s cat keeping me company on the porch is a rich, deep brown, like dark chocolate, thick velvet, and warm shadows.
The tulip tree across the street wears blossoms of living porcelain, pure white touched with mauve, delicate and graceful.
The once-bare branches of trees are bursting with green buds, vibrant life springing forth, while crew-cut lawns sport freckles of dandelions.
The mountains stand out starkly against the clear sky, their crags revealed by the spring thaw. They resemble giant doughnuts or bundt cakes, with snow dripping like icing down their sides and into crevices. Mt. Baker is all angles, reminding me of the blocks of chalk that I used as a gymnast, breaking them apart into snowy chunks, and then grinding them to dust to spread on my hands before beginning an uneven bar routine. These mountains sail in the sky on the horizon, while islands and sailboats fly in the sea.
Yellow is in the tulips and dandelions, daffodils and forsythia, and in the brightness of this sunny day. Orange like muted, living flame grows in one of the shrubs that borders my yard, while purple, magenta, and red bloom in the faces of many flowers.
Best of all is the blue, stretching brightly overhead, streaked with airy clouds, the shadowed blue of distant forested hills, and the silver-faced surface of the water spreading out before me, cheerfully mirroring the sky.
People are like that water, I think, when they reflect the things they surround themselves with, their circumstances, their attitudes and opinions. Some are bright blue only when the sky is blue, but some can call it from a source deep below or beyond the surface, even when gray clouds cover the sky and wind tosses the water into white-capped waves.
Colors are a vital part of such impressions, I think, for they have power to move the mind and the emotions, to wake a sleepy soul from hibernation, to cause me to write such observations and comparisons. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then an experience must be worth millions, if one hopes to capture all the details.
This is where Impressionism -the art form- comes in, and can be valuable, although it depends on the artist. It seems to me that Impressionism does not seek to recreate an exact likeness of the subject it represents, because the artist prefers to give more emphasis to the emotions felt or the interplay of light, shadow, color, mood, or atmosphere than to complete definition. One can still understand what the subject of the art is, because structure and form have not been thrown out the window, those foundations have just been stretched a bit and given an additional dimension. For example, my two favorite such Impressionists (although they did not much like the term and did not apply it to themselves) are Monet, who painted his gardens at Giverny, Parliament buildings at sunset, people on a picnic, and so forth with emphasis on the colors defining the forms, and Debussy, who colored a soundscape with tones, depicting such things as sails with the blending of tonal structures and painting with a piano, pitches running into each other like water-colors to create an atmospheric composition. They were not photographing a subject, but rather remembering it and responding to it “out loud” as it were, by giving something back to the world to share how they had experienced whatever it was.
An impression can be loosely defined (my paraphrase) as an experience that presses into someone and leaves a mark; the thoughts, emotions, and actions resulting from the experience are the “mark,” the impression. Usually these are fleeting, for the moment passes and the mark fades, just as the colors of today will fade into night, and the happiness brought by the sunshine will soon become memory on a cloudy day. But those deep impressions made on each person throughout life, those events and experiences that leave a lasting mark, the kind that cause one to give something back to the world -whether ugly, beautiful, or mediocre- I believe they shape the inner person in ways that will either bend one into twisted sculpture, stamped by the ugliness in the world, or turn one into a collage of colors, a mosaic of beauty, or a sea that reflects blue sky even when the world is gray. Free will and choice have a great deal to do with that shaping process, but that is a topic for another day. These, however, have been my simple impressions for today, which now I share with you.
What impressions have shaped your soul?

Good Friday

Today is Good Friday, the day when we remember the suffering Christ endured and the life He gave, before we celebrate His Resurrection on Easter. So I print here the lyrics to a hymn, one that always reminds me of the eternal significance of that sacrifice.


“How Deep the Father’s Love for Us”
by Stuart Townsend

How deep the Father’s love for us, how vast beyond all measure
that He should give His only son to make a wretch His treasure.
How great the pain of searing loss, the Father turns His face away
as wounds which mar the Chosen One bring many sons to glory.

Behold the Man upon the cross, my sin upon His shoulders
ashamed I hear my mocking voice call out among the scoffers.
It was my sin that held Him there, until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life, I know that it is finished.

I will not boast in anything, no gifts, no power, no wisdom
but I will boast in Jesus Christ, His death and resurrection.
Why should I gain from His reward? I cannot give an answer
but this I know with all my heart: His wounds have paid my ransom.

On the nature of mayonnaise -a comic interlude

The other day, necessity demanded that I stop for fast food. I ordered a no-frills cheeseburger, but in my hurry I neglected to make my standard request: “no mayonnaise, please.” I belatedly realized this as I drove up to the window to receive it, hoping against hope that it was only hamburgers that included the standard mayo, and that this cheeseburger might somehow be exempt (just ketchup?). Unfortunately, I was out of luck, for this cheeseburger too seemed bound by that law of fast-food culture: “mayonnaise is a staple and must be abundantly (extravagantly even) applied to the surface of any item that consists of bread and meat products.” Yuck.
Perhaps it is primarily the texture of mayonnaise that grosses me out, that and its vagueness of flavor (for that reason a few members of my family prefer Miracle Whip, which I do not find to be much of an improvement). I find it necessary to keep the stuff in the house for those rare occasions when I make tuna or deviled eggs, for which I tolerate the minimal amount of mayo required. However, on all other occasions I try to avoid it. I was reminded of why, as I tried to ignore the globs of mayonnaise enough to eat the cheeseburger. It saturated the lettuce, squished throughout the bun, and splurted out of the edges; there was just no ignoring it! Annoyed, I discarded the top bun and pathetic lettuce, as they were far beyond the simple remedy of wiping away the excess mayonnaise. Why is this stuff considered so indispensable, and how did we get this way?
I have found that, the more I understand something, the more I appreciate it; so, I decided to find out more about the origins of mayonnaise. I came across this website, which shed a good bit of light on the history of mayo. Apparently, it’s not as recent of an invention as I had thought; it is at least two-hundred years old. According to the “what’s cooking America” website’s history of sauces:

“Most authorities believe the first batch of this mixture of egg yolks, oil and seasonings was whipped up to celebrate the 1756 French capture of Mahon, a city on the Spanish Isle of Minorca, by forces under Louis-Francois-Armad de Vignerot du Plessis, duc de Richelieu (1696-1788). The Duke, or more likely, his personal chef, is credited with inventing mayonnaise, as his chef created a victory feast that was to include a sauce made of cream and eggs. Realizing that there was no cream in the kitchen, the chef substituted olive oil for the cream and a new culinary creation was born. Supposedly the chef named the new sauce "Mahonnaise" in honor of the Duc's victory…”

I suppose I have more of an appreciation now for the longevity of mayonnaise, and a new understanding of its classification (“sauce”, not just “spread”), but I’m afraid that knowledge hasn’t altered the preferences of my taste buds any. So to you mayonnaise lovers out there, more power to you and less mayo for me, thank you very much!

Something worth sharing

I first heard this prayer of St. Francis as part of a sermon several years ago, and it was so applicable to life just then that I cut the words out of the bulletin and posted it on my computer until I graduated from college. Now it resides on the wall behind my desk at school, where it reminds me again what it means to be a Christian. I put it here now so that I will not lose it, and so that you too may have the chance to benefit from it as well.


“Our Father, each day is a little life, each night a tiny death; help us to live with faith and hope and love. Lift our duty above drudgery; let not our strength fail, or the vision fade in the heat and burden of the day. O God, make us patient and pitiful one with another in the fret and jar of life, remembering that each fights a hard fight and walks a lonely way. Forgive us Lord, if we hurt our fellow souls; teach us a gentler tone, a sweeter charity of words, and a more healing touch. Sustain us, O God, when we must face sorrow; give us courage for the day and hope for the morrow. Day unto day may we lay hold of Thy hand and look up into Thy face, whatever befall, until our work is finished and the day is done. Amen.” -St. Francis of Assisi, 1181-1226

Walk with me

The tulips in the vase on my coffee table are open wide, embracing the sunlight pouring in through the windows. Their stems bend and twist as they strain towards it; they almost look like they could crawl right out, or their leaves turn into wings that send them flying out into the sunlit bliss. “Freedom! Springtime! Let us out!” They seem to say.
Or perhaps that is just my inner native, screaming at me to get my behind off the couch and go enjoy the beautiful day while it lasts.
So, restlessness converted into resolve and action, my running shoes are on, the hair is up, and out I go! No hamster-wheel of a treadmill for me today, the gym can wait for the next rainy day, because this one is for going places!
The air is alive: I can smell earth and cut grass, hear the birds, and feel spring bursting forth all around me. Yes, this is the kind of day I was looking forward to, when I wrote of spring on a windy day not very long ago.
The air is crisp, but once I have been walking awhile it is just perfect, enough to cool me when I break into a run. This is better than my summertime runs, when I feel the sunburn starting and the roadsides are knee-high with weeds.
I pass cows working on their fourth lunch, people mowing their lawns, and drivers whooshing past me as they return from work. Ha! I am not stuck inside a car, I am out here where things are alive… I walk by barbed-wire fences alongside the road surrounded thickly by briars, where blackbirds “chirk” and “ttreee” inside, and flutter out to sit along the wires and watch me pass by.
I am getting close to my destination, and the promise of it urges me to run more often and walk quickly when I rest. I am excited to have made it this far, for last time I came without the aid of a motor vehicle, it was with a bicycle, and my knees were not happy with the abuse. They are doing pretty good today, though, so I think my workouts on the treadmill are helping.
I turn the corner and head down the road that leads toward trees and water…I can smell the water now, and the sounds of humans are growing more faint. There are houses here too, but hidden more discreetly down long driveways and back amongst the trees. I can pretend that they do not exist much more easily now, and as I look at the thick tangles of underbrush that surround the trees, the forest resting in its authentic wildness, my mind wanders to thoughts of Native Americans, and then to Thoreau. For someone who likes to write poetry, I realize, I sure haven’t read much of it, but I do vaguely remember an American literature book I was forced to read, and Thoreau was a guy who found much inspiration in nature and wrote about God and wilderness a lot; I like that, so I should go rediscover him.
I am running down the hill now, and arrive out of breath but exhilarated at the small nature/historical preserve. There are two people with their dog already there, but they are far enough away that we can politely ignore one another. A short time is all I have, so I walk down to the water, smell the saltiness, hear the shorebirds calling, breathe in the freshness, and take in the view. The mountains are partially hidden by some clouds, but the rest of the sky feels open again, and swallows dart back and forth way up in the vast blueness of it. Lucky birds!
It is time to go…I aim to be home by five o’ clock, and I know I’ve got about a mile and a half to walk back again.
This time, I walk on the other side of the road, following the small creek I heard rushing downhill to the tidelands. I follow it up the hill and next to the road, thinking how this stream may have been here, running with the rainy seasons, before this strip of asphalt was ever laid. Or maybe it came into existence because the road was made, and thus a drainage ditch, but the ditch has become something more beautiful here…it is music to my ears. I think of all the people at the gym, plugged into their iPods, missing all of this. Sure, at the gym you want to tune other folks out for a while, pretend that you are somewhere else. For me, this is the somewhere else to be, where simple things make the exercise the means to an adventure, and not the ends. The music of this creek is peaceful, healing, pure. I look up, and see a hawk with a snowy breast and brown spots land in a tree; further on, something rustles in the brush. The road meets again with the highway, and I leave the forest behind.
The way back is a bit easier, more downhill. I follow more roadside streams, some little more than a trickle, some stagnant and green, with snake grass growing up out of the water. People in their cars rush past, and I keep running, the breezes rushing around me and into me, I feel the rhythms of my feet and my breathing and life around me.
I wish you could have been there with me, for words are two dimensional. I can describe the sounds, the smells, the experience, and in that way perhaps you may have walked it again with me just now, but these words are still only a shadow of the reality they represent. Sure, it was just a walk, with many random thoughts inspired along the way, but definitely a worthwhile way to spend part of an afternoon.
I am home, writing now, and it is dark outside. The tulips are closed, their source of happiness gone until tomorrow perhaps. But me, I am still happy, because today I felt free and alive. Walk again with me another day, there will be more inspiration, I am sure of it!