Home-grown Tomatoes

If you love home grown tomatoes and if you live in the Midwest with a nice sized backyard, you will probably want a summer garden to grow your very own red, juicy beauties.

Quite possibly, you love home grown tomatoes because you grew up with a garden, a huge one, you were expected to help weed and to help pick -- tomatoes, okra, corn, asparagus, strawberries.  Maybe you had a dad who loved to garden and a mom who loved the vegetables, but grumbled about all the canning.  (Now that you are an adult, you do understand that.)


And chances are, though you remember griping about all the weeding (and perhaps you even remember complaining to your elementary school friends about summer beginning because now you would have to weed the garden all the time), you now understand the beauty of gardening, even the weeding, maybe even especially the weeding.  You understand the solitude of the garden. Working alone, sweat dripping down your back, clearing the soil of weeds, creating order. You still feel that childish rush of pride all these years later in knowing the difference between a corn seedling and a weed.  You still delight in the pungent organic smell of tomato plants.


You may remember all these things, savor them mentally, and vow to plant a big ol' rural-Oklahoma style garden next summer.


But life will be as busy as ever when tilling and planting time comes... and goes. You will mentally settle for a tomato plant or two and maybe some dill or zucchini. And then more time will pass and your dad will possibly ask when you want him to bring some tomato plants over.  He will have started all sorts of varieties in his greenhouse during the spring and he'll be anxious for you to plant some of them. More time will pass.  You will probably look out your kitchen window while hand washing a few dishes and you will see the barren garden and feel guilty you've continued to neglect it.


Finally, your dad will relent.  You hadn't intended that to be the result, but you won't feel disappointed either.  He will till the garden for you.  He will plant tomato plants.  You wanted a couple of plants.  He will plant five.  That's okay.  You don't have to eat each and every tomato.  You can share.  Maybe you'll puree and freeze some.  Maybe you'll waste a few.

Special tomato-slicing knife

When that first full, fragrant tomato reddens, you will slice it with the special tomato-slicing knife you received for Christmas a few years ago.  You will prepare a turkey sandwich on 12-grain bread -- green leafy lettuce, cheese, mayo, celery salt and a fat juicy slice of tomato.  It will taste so transcendentally delicious you will make another sandwich.  Forget about chips or a cookie for dessert; two tomato-laden turkey sandwiches will do.


You will document your first turkey-with-homegrown-tomato sandwich of the year as your Facebook status.

The summer will progress.  You'll savor more tomatoes.  Your husband will eat some of them like apples, squirting mustard on each as he goes.  (A strategy he learned from you.)  Sometimes you will eat so many tomatoes, you'll get canker sores.  And over time, you will no longer appreciate the tomatoes quite so much as you first did.  You will give away more and more.  You will pick less frequently, allowing some to rot on the vine in the blazing summer heat.


When fall arrives, bringing increasingly harder freezes, and the vines begin to droop, you will once again neglect your garden.  Now when you look out that kitchen window, you'll see a garden patch in need of clearing.  You know it won't be much work, just a few minutes of tearing out vines and dragging them to the compost and a few moments of stacking the tomato cages under the deck.  If you've thought ahead, maybe you'll spread around coffee grounds collected from the local barista.


There's a good chance though that even in December, those vines will still be there, black, ugly, sagging, evidence of the difficult months that preceded this one.  But one afternoon, you just might look out that kitchen window and see magic.  


To be continued...

Unexpected beauty

Somehow, these fit together in my brain.  This exquisite video of a starling murmuration in Ireland.  (You can read more about it here.)

And this song, "The Dawn Will Break upon Us" written by the brilliantly talented Mike Crawford.  


His song is layered with unexpected sounds and beauty.  It soars.  It murmurates.  


(Yes, I made that word up.)


For the album premiere last year, he and the Secret Siblings projected a jagged-y video of birds flying through a grey sky.


I've been listening to the album on a soggy, grey December day and savoring the flight of birds against barren trees and a bleak sky. Today, I've replayed the song several times because listening to it seems right for the moment.


The Dawn will indeed break upon us.  


****************
I wonder if any of those birds have a mustache.

Hamster Wheel

I've been chasing after clarity.  Mulling over frustrations in my life, my former job, my head.  Thinking and rethinking and rethinking.  Driving myself crazy with it.  Trying to understand, to pinpoint, to capsulize.  Getting nowhere.  

This has continued relentlessly for quite some time now.  Months.  

Running on a hamster wheel.  Frantically.  To the point of exhaustion.  Yet finding it immensely difficult to stop.  

There's a certain comfort in the hamster wheel, a familiarity that, though wearing, is also energizing.  On the hamster wheel, the fuel of inner confusion, anger and frustration keep me going with boundless spiraling compulsion.  

There's a predictability to the hamster wheel too.  I may not understand the situation.  I may be revisiting the facts and the emotions with little genuine insight.  But I know the wheel.  

In the absence of true clarity, I lock fiercely on each nugget of fact and emotion.  I see each of them clearly, albeit briefly, like rungs on a hamster wheel.  They speed by.  But for a moment, a fleeting moment, I can see something clearly and then something else and something else.  In the absence of true clarity, I've been willing to settle.

The morning after I first came to this realization, my mother-in-law, who had no idea what I'd been thinking, sent me an email with the link below.  (Be sure to watch to the end.) 

Sheesh!

I'm discovering (through the help of a spiritual director who meets with me periodically) God is not in the hamster wheel.  It's not that he's not with me or accessible to me there.  But I will not experience him in the hamster wheel.  In fact, I will not even experience him in clarity.  Sure, he sometimes offers me moments of true clarity, but that is not where I need to look to find him.  

I am made not for clarity, but for relationship with the Creator.  Clarity is nice, but it alone will never be truly satisfying.  Chasing after clarity only expends energy and fuels frustration.  It does not bring me closer to what I truly and deeply desire.

I'm trying to learn how to step off the hamster wheel.  It is not easy, but boy oh boy do have lots of opportunity to practice these days.  


Yesterday, I read the following excerpt from Rechurch: Healing Your Way Back to the People of God by Stephen Mansfield:
 

"You have been replaying the facts of your situation over and over again in your mind.  You want to talk about the facts as you see them, and then you want to set those facts afire and shove them into the faces of those who wronged you.  But hear me on this: there may be a time and a place for the facts to be aired, but getting the facts right will never set you free.  Even if everyone involved in your hurtful situation instantly agreed with your perspective on the facts, it would not heal the damage that has been done to your insides.  So, excuse me while I sidestep the facts -- your version and theirs -- and simply show you the path to wholeness.  Then, may God do with the facts of your painful situation whatever he pleases." (p. 17)

It's true, but... OUCH!

And yet, I find the most consolation and feel the most wholeness and freedom in stepping back from my pursuit of clarity, vindication and self-defense, and stepping into the arms of God, as best I can.

Zephaniah 3:17
The LORD you God is with you,
He is mighty to save
He will take great delight in you.
He will quiet you with his love.
He will rejoice over you with singing. 

For the Coming Day

Evening Prayer

Lord, You have always given 

bread for the coming day; 

and though I am poor,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always given

strength for the coming day;

and though I am poor,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always given

peace for the coming day

and though of anxious heart,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always kept

me safe in trials;

and now, tried as I am,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always marked

the road for the coming day;

and though it may be hidden,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always lightened

this darkness fo mine;

and though the night is here,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always spoken

when time was ripe;

and though you be silent now,

today I believe.

From the Northumbria Community and the Celtic Daily Prayer book

Three brief stories

One
During my sophomore year in college, my sorority worked a day at the local amusement park as a fundraiser.  Before the park opened, our supervisors asked several of us to test ride the Orient Express, a zinger of a loop-de-loop roller coaster.  We rode it once.  When that ride came to the end, instead of stopping, the coaster slowed a bit and then kept going for another round... and another... and another.  We rode through at least five times without stopping.  By the end, I was thinking "Get me off of this thing!!!"

The Orient Express.  It's since been razed to make way for another ride.

Two
About a month ago, I dropped the carpool off at school and headed to a doctor's appointment arriving about thirty minutes early.  It was too early to run a decent errand (and most places weren't open yet), so I decided to pop into the McDonald's across the street, pick up a coffee and sit in my van reading until the appointment time.  It was a warm and sunny fall morning and I had a great book with me.  I was looking forward to it.


While parking at McDonalds, I remembered I owed my mom a quick phone call and decided to give her a ring her before going in.  I chatted with her for a moment when suddenly the car door next to me slammed forcefully into my passenger side door.  I glared fiercely at the man with the meanest "What the..." look I could muster.  I jumped out of the van, hurried around and examined my passenger door.  No damage thankfully, though I don't know how.


Then the man started yelling at me.  


He was around seventy.  He had a bumper sticker on his car saying, "You cannot be Catholic and pro-choice."


"You parked right on top of me!" he yelled.


I looked down at the line dividing his space and mine, his car and mine. All of my van was at least six inches within the divider's inside edge. Could I have parked further away from his car? Sure. But I was well within the line.


I pointed this out.  He just kept yelling at me.  His friend got out of the car and stood behind it saying nothing.  A McDonald's employee taking her smoking break by the dumpsters watched from the distance.


The conversation didn't last long.  I can't remember what I said.  At some point, the words "not appropriate behavior" came out of my mouth, the sort of thing I might say to my children.  


I didn't back down, though, and I didn't explode either.  In the past, I might have jumped back in my car and driven away avoiding the whole conflict.  


Instead, I argued briefly, but firmly, calmly.  Then I walked in and ordered my coffee.  The man and his friend ordered coffee at the register next to me.  I told my cashier that I would like to buy their coffee too. The disgruntled man looked shocked, at sea for a moment.  Then he mumbled that they had already paid.


We all walked out at the same time, using different doors, each of us with coffee in hand.  I got in my car.  They got in their car.  And I drove away. 


Three
A decade ago, our church decided to change denominational affiliations. This decision involved much agonized thought and prayer by our pastor and the church leadership.  The decision was far from easy, but for a variety of reasons, it was the best and most honest one.  


The denominational leadership was livid.  They retaliated with cunning and thorough vehemence.  They immediately distributed a letter to all denominational members in the region demonizing the decision.  The letter was full of half-truths.  The implied conclusions were lies.


Our pastor was devastated.  He had grown up in that denomination and in many ways, still loved it.  He had wanted to part amicably, with integrity.


But I thought, even if we might have doubted the decision beforehand, seeing how the denominational leadership behaved in response only served to confirm -- to underline and boldface -- the rightness of our decision. 

Free to Run and Play

A prominent theme for me this past year has been freedom.  I hadn't anticipated it being a theme.  If I were to select one myself, I'd probably choose a character trait needing improvement -- something like patience, peace, compassion.  This freedom thing seems to be God's idea.

I first noticed the theme at a retreat in March.  A friend read Psalm 63 from Eugene Peterson's The Message translation.  These words jumped out to me:

"Because you've always stood up for me, I'm free to run and play."


Upon hearing that line, I knew it was meant for me.  I reflected on how carefully I tend to tread through life, trying to step wisely, trying to not make mistakes, trying to be not just above reproach, but above all criticism.  This creates a life that is intentional, yes, but one often accompanied by a clenched jaw and a sour stomach.  One that doesn't allow much time to run and play.

The retreat was in the Colorado Rockies.  I love the mountains.  Across the street were hiking paths and foothills, perfect for bouldering, for scrambling around like a kid, for savoring broad panoramic views.  During the free time after hearing that verse, I hiked alone, literally running and bounding and playing.  (At least until my lungs protested the thin air.)  

The view atop one of the boulders.

Later, a friend who'd been sitting high on a boulder told me she had watched me at play.  Normally I would have felt highly embarrassed to discover someone was watching.  But she expressed such joy at witnessing my playfulness I realized God too had noticed and watched and enjoyed.


Free to run and play.


Because you've always stood up for me...


The rough situation I've experienced these past few weeks makes me want to defend myself.  Misunderstanding, misinterpretation, misrepresentation.  They all burn deeply.  I want to lash out in anger and vindication to protect myself.  I want to set the record straight.  I want to warn others, or at least to drop little watch-out-this-could-happen-to-you hints.  


I've heard God is my defender, but frankly, he seems to have been asleep on the job here.  Even a good friend who did step up and strongly defend me was  reprimanded, shamed, misunderstood.  


That was one of the lowest points for me, for my husband, for some of my friends.  The realization that this is actually happening and there's no turning back now.  Lines have been drawn.  Bridges have been burned.  Ultimatums have been issued.  Reconciliation, if it occurs at all, will be a long, arduous process.


The next morning, when I checked email, I found a Noisetrade link to the album "Now You're Free" by Matthew Mayfield.  


Now you're free.  Indeed.  


At the time, I smirked.  Part of me took it as a message from God.  The cynical part of me just took it as interesting timing.  A few days later, I actually listened to the song (lyrics here, scroll down on the page).

"Don't let the wave push and pull you away

Now you're free and it sets you apart."

I'm realizing through this song, through the Psalm 63 passage, through countless other recent hints and nudges, that I am free, that God has set me free -- not just in a meta, life-encompassing sense, but in this specific situation.  His mercy is sometimes severe, but it is indeed merciful.  He is being merciful to me.

When I feel despairing about the situation, I'm trying to focus on the sheer freedom that comes with it.  This calms my anxious heart and helps me to trust, sleep, smile.  It helps me to imagine a day very soon when I might run and play with more freedom and bounce in my step.  

Last night, my daughter said, "Mom, you seem awfully sprightly tonight."  My son asked her what that meant and she explained.  He looked at me, cocked his head and said, "Yeah, she is looking sprightly."  Perhaps it is true.

***********

As I was looking through my Colorado retreat photos to chose one to insert in this post, I discovered one other retreat pic I had forgotten.

An American friend who lives in what used to be Eastern Germany brought the picture.  He said it represents a common theme in his life the previous few months.  I asked him for a copy because translated into English, this sign says... Freedom. 

But I Believe...

Pattern

Some believe the slumber
Of trees is in December
When timber's naked under sky
And squirrel keeps his chamber.


But I believe their fibres
Awake to life and labour
When turbulence comes roaring up
The land in loud October,


And plunders, strips, and sunders
And sends the leaves to wander
And undisguises prickly shapes
Beneath the golden splendor.


Then form returns.  In warmer, 
seductive days, disarming
Its firmer will, the wood grew soft 
And put forth dreams to murmur.


Into earnest winter
With spirit alert it enters;
The hunter wind and the hound frost
Have quelled the green enchanter.


- C.S. Lewis

In the Morning I Will Sing

It's a drippy overcast November day, the kind of weather I love... on occasion.  Makes we want to drink tea and munch on toast with Nutella, to wander out in a pea coat, scarf and no umbrella, to scribble furiously in my journal.  Reminds me of my semester in Oxford, the richness and adventure of that time.  Perhaps that's why this weather feels adventurous to me.  My soul is a little bit excited on days like this.


Yesterday was a day of festering conflicts and messy but effective resolutions.  All conflicts are not resolved; the big one continues as complicated and muddled as ever.  But some small nagging conflicts moved forward yesterday.  Hopefully the progress was real.  


Yesterday was a day to take down the autumn decorations I love so much and replace them with Christmas decor.  The tree is up - thank goodness.  This year, Rough and Tumble helped me assemble our imitation tree and line it with white lights.  That's my least favorite part.  He loved it.  I loved his company.


Piles of fall items await their long months of storage.  Boxes of Christmas items await placement.  And I, the placer and store-er of these garnishes, sit blogging and listening to David Gray.

Usually, I listen to Christmas music while decorating for Christmas.  But in the absence of a working CD player and with my iPod not yet loaded with seasonal tunes, I'm left with the usual iPod shuffle, which has lead me to this song (lyrics below the video link):

Flame Turns Blue
David Gray


I went looking for someone I left behind
Yeah but no-one just a stranger did I find
I never noticed hadn't seen it as it grew
The void between us where the flame turns blue


Different places yeah but they all look the same
Dreams of faces in the streets devoured by names
I'm in collision with every stone I ever threw
And blind ambition where the flame turns blue


Words dismantled hey and all the books unbound
Conversations though we utter not a sound
I heard a rumour don't know if it's true
That you'd meet me where the flame turns blue


So I venture underneath the leaden sky
See the freight train with its one fierce eye
And then I listen as it tears the night in two 
And a whistle and the flame turns blue


In the morning I will sing
In the morning I will sing


Through the lemon trees the diamonds of light
Break in splinters on the pages where I write
That if I lost you I don't know what I'd do
Burn forever where the flame tuns blue
Yeah if I lost you I don't know what I'd do
Burn forever where the flame turns blue


In the morning I will sing....


I love David Gray and actually got to see him in concert this summer.  The man can belt out an emotion-laden wail better than anyone in the business.  And he writes such deeply insightful lyrics and evocative melodies.


"I'm in collision with every stone I ever threw and blind ambition where the flame turns blue."  "Words dismantled and all the books unbound."

What caught my attention in this song today, what made me abandon my decorating to replay the song and sit to listen, was the repeated phrase, "In the morning I will sing."


Possibly it's the weather.  Maybe it's that combined with the relief of resolved conflicts.  Perhaps it's the six nights straight of good sleep after a rest-less month.  But my heart feels a bit lighter, a tiny bit hopeful.    


I've experienced this lightness in brief snatches during the past week, times of relief, stretches of deep peace and trust in God.  They don't last yet.  I know that too.  Behind them follow deep dips of discouragement and doubt and hurt.  But just as I do not question the dips, I'm trying not to question the lightness.  Yes, it seems incongruous, but it's no less real.  And when it comes, it's a welcome respite from the times of pain and struggle.  I will accept the lightness for the gift it is.


And I will pray with the strength this lightness brings.  


*****************
Quoted in Celtic Daily Prayer 
I see your hands,
not white and manicured, 
but scarred and scratched and competent,
reach out --
not always to remove the weight I carry,
but to shift its balance, ease it,
make it bearable.
Lord, if this is where You want me,
I'm content.
No, not quite true.  I wish it were.
All I can say, in honesty, is this:
If this is where I'm meant to be,
I'll stay.  And try.
Just let me feel Your hands.
And, Lord, for all who hurt today --
hurt more than me --
I ask for strength and that flicker of light,
the warmth, that says You're there.
-- Eddie Askew, Many Voices, One Voice

"For you are with me...."

"You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies."
*******************

Okay, I know it's corny.  But I love owls and I love watching the contentment with which the screech owl seems to enjoy the petting.  Picturing this video helped me fall asleep on a recent restless evening. 

Fire

.

"God is with us."

This is how a friend signed her email today.  The email was about the difficult situation I've been blogging about, the knothole I've been squeezing through.  


I think I wanted her to say, "God is with you."  To reassure me and me alone He is with me, the wronged party, and not with those who have done the wronging.  But that's not true.  He loves them too.  Sometimes I pray that they will experience that.  


And He is indeed with me.  In the midst of all the turmoil, I have felt his presence most in the quirky little messages he seems to be sending my way.  Perhaps these messages don't mean anything and I'm just choosing to imbue meaning into silly things like Sesame Street books and Facebook reposts.  Or maybe He knows I need the encouragement and direction and He's sending them to me in ways he knows I will best receive them.  Things like mustachioed robins. Encouraging emails from friends speak volumes to me.  I print them out and reread them periodically.  But funny little coincidences really catch my attention too, especially when I'm on the lookout for them as I am now.  Perhaps they are always there, things God scatters about with a chuckle, but I do not notice them because I am not looking.  


On Tuesday evening a significant event occurred in relation to The Situation.  I was not there, but apparently it did not go well.  That is no surprise.  As my husband recapped the event, I felt a whole new round of anger and despair.  The sort of despair that makes you wonder how you will make it through the next five minutes much less the rest of the week.  The sort of despair that keeps you awake, heart pounding, even when you're taking ibuprofen p.m. to sleep.  It is a horrible feeling to be misunderstood and misrepresented. 


Wednesday morning, when I logged onto Facebook, I found posted this article about a massive fire at St. Malo Retreat Center near Allenspark, Colorado.  A million dollars worth of damage. 


Last March, I spent a week at St. Malo as a part of a spiritual formation institute in which I'm participating.  It's a stunningly beautiful place.  The main lodge has a huge fireplace in the center surrounded by lots of comfy chairs -- places to cozy up and chat with God, others.  The big wall of windows looks out toward Colorado mountains.  Majestic.  It's the sort of place you want to sit and linger, savor.  Good things happen there.  

So do fires.  Unexpected destruction.  Despair.


The St. Malo fire feels metaphorical to me, to my situation.  I had hoped to construct a place of retreat and peace, a place where people could meet God and one another, a place where God's majesty would be captivatingly evident.  Not a physical place, mind you, more of an environment.  But I had what I thought was the perfect spot to do it.  


Then it caught fire.  Like the St. Malo fire, a whole series of events combined to create the perfect storm, or rather the perfect burn.  Destruction, massive amounts of it, occurred, are still occurring.  


One looks at the St. Malo destruction and at the estimated rebuild costs and wonders if it's even worth it.  And if it is is worth it, how can it happen?  Where to start?


I have no idea where to go from here.  No clue.  It's as if fog has descended masking the tiny amount of clarity I once had.  Perhaps it's smoke, not fog.


And is it even worth trying to rebuild?


In St. Malo's instance, the answer is absolutely.  I think God is possibly telling me my dreams are also worth rebuilding.  


Maybe I will relax for now.  Let the dust settle.  Let the winter pass.  In the Spring, when new life emerges, maybe I'll have ideas, rebirth, growth.  St. Malo could have used a bit of updating.  The restored version will be better than before.  The surrounding beauty will remain.  I hope this is true for me as well.


Have I mentioned what part of St. Malo's Center did survive?

Hurt

A friend posted this video on Facebook yesterday.  I love the song, the raw honesty of Johnny Cash's voice, the layers of meaning and experience.

Today, it is one of those songs I want to play over and over again.  It captures the way I feel.  Resonates.  Even the "You stay the hell away from me.  You here?"  


It's not where I will land, but it is where I am at the moment.


Somehow, I have learned over time that it is not okay to feel, that I should suppress my negative emotions.  I am relearning now how to acknowledge that the feelings exist and to genuinely feel them.  It is scary.  It takes time.  I fear the feelings will spiral out of control. 


But I've been here before.  I think I'm beginning to trust myself, that though I will sink into the depth of the feelings, I will not wallow.  Not for long, at least.




If I could start again, a millions miles away.  I would keep myself.  I would find a way.


The song stirs up memories too.  Young Johnny Cash reminds me of my paternal grandpa, who always scared me a little.  My dad is a good dad, especially considering where he came from.


It reminds me too of when I first heard the song almost five years ago.  A group of high school dancers performed to it at our church.  I was a guest speaker that morning and it was the first time I'd spoken in a few years.  The previous time had been at another church and was disastrous.  It wasn't poorly executed; it was just too polished.  This time around, I was nervous to speak again, wanting to redeem myself, sorting through the hurt of that past "failure."  


Our church was in the middle of a series on The Lord's Prayer, and my topic was "Forgive us our sins."  I began the sermon quoting some of the song lyrics:  "and you could have it all/ my empire of dirt/ I will let you down/ I will make you hurt."  


We don't typically think of Nine Inch Nails, the song's original performers, as theologians, but what they've written sounds to me like a deeply honest confession of sin, one I can relate to.


Dallas Willard defines confession of sin as saying to God and perhaps to others, "This is how I really am." 


This song is how I really am.  I hurt.  I cause it.  I feel it.  Right now, I really feel it.


Interestingly, when I watched the video yesterday, it locked up on the shot of Christ's agonized expression, a crown of thorns on his head.  I restarted the video; it stopped there again.  The same thing happened a third time.  If the video plays normally, the face shot is briefer than a blink.  I'm not entirely sure what to make of that, though I have some ideas.  


But I will not moralize or guilt myself into good-Christian thoughts.  I will allow myself to feel God-created feelings that are good, even in a fallen world.  This is not where I will land, but it is where I am at the moment.  And moments, regardless of their tone, are worth experiencing and in their own way celebrating.

The Monster at the End of this Book

When I was a kid, one of my favorite books was...

As you can see, it stars lovable, furry Grover from Sesame Street.  Grover has discovered, thanks to the book title, that there is a monster at the end of this very book, and he is downright worried about that.  Page after page, he warns the reader not to turn to the next page. 


As a child, I did not cooperate with his entreaties.  I turned each page gleefully.  Apparently, I was not the only one.


With each new page turn, Grover becomes increasingly insistent, panicked even.  He begs and pleads.  He attempts to tie down the pages with ropes and then with hammers, nails and 2x4's.  He erects a brick wall.  Each consecutive page shows the destruction created as the prior page bursts free from Grover's security measures.


Finally, on the penultimate page, a forlorn Grover makes one final desperate plea.

And yet, I turned the page.  You would have too, I bet.


At the end of the book, there is indeed a monster.  That monster is Grover.




I've thought about this book from time to time over the years, wondering if it is still in print.  


Yesterday, while grocery shopping, when I passed by the book and magazine section, there it was, The Monster at the End of this Book, right there front and center on the rack.


The timing of this discovery was interesting.  I had just received a big blow of bad news.  Nothing earth shattering, thankfully, but the type of lousy news that plays on old insecurities, pains, patterns.  The kind that causes me to doubt myself and God's goodness, that certainly makes me doubt the goodness of those around me.  


The past six months have been challenging and the past month more so.  Yesterday was just the proverbial straw on the camel.  Whether I've liked it or not, circumstances of late have pushed me to dig deep, to reevaluate my life choices, to consider what I want to be about at this point in my life, what God wants me to be about now.  I suppose the early forties is a good age for this sort of thing.


And so, I've been confronting the monsters, those very insecurities, pains and patterns stirred up by yesterday's news.  The stuff that keeps a gal up at night.  I feel myself gripping tightly to what I think is right, wanting to do everything so well that it's beyond criticism, wanting to manage circumstances and people and what those people think.  

I've been wary.  I've focused on the monster at the end of the book.  It is no mistake that I encountered this beloved book all these years later on such a discouraging day.  


Maybe the monsters are really not all that scary after all.  Certainly, there are scary and awful things in the world, but that's all the more reason not to fear the monsters that are not truly scary.  Maybe the monster is me.  That's certainly partly true, but it's not the entire story.  


In seeing the book, I'm reminded to relax and trust the Author, perhaps to even chuckle at my panic and futile security measures.  Maybe with the Author I can blow through some of these pages, the walls, the ropes, to get to a place that is clearly good.  Maybe I'll get to see reality with the Author's eyes.  


I am hopeful, though I still wrestle.  


And I take heart in one other little gem-of-a-message in the Grover book:

So, Why the Strange Blog Name?

One afternoon last spring, while I waited in the car enjoying the sunshine during my kids' piano lessons, I noticed a robin gathering dried grass for her nest. I'd never observed this process before and because the day was beautiful, I allowed myself the luxury of lingering to watch.


The robin, rather than flying repeated trips to its nest carrying one piece at a time, continued gathering grass until it had a whole beak-full.  Of course!  That's a much more sensible approach.  I applauded the robin for its cleverness and myself for noticing.


Then something magical happened.  The robin turned my direction.  At that moment, it looked as if it had a big, bushy, straw-colored mustache.

Photo from Minnesota Outdoor Journal

I was delighted!  I felt as if I was experiencing a serendipitous moment meant just for me, one in which I played an important role.  No one else was seeing this bird.  It was up to me to notice, to really see, and to savor.  I alone was given the responsibility of celebrating this divine frivolity.

And celebrate I did.  I put it as my Facebook status.

(That's meant to be funny.)  (Even if it is true.)

This little gift, though, gave me a mental image of what, in part, I wanted my life to be about and consequently what I wanted my blog to be about (if I ever got around to creating one).

Life is difficult and sometimes painful, yes.  but it is also full of beauty and unexpectedly magical moments -- of mustachioed robins.  I'd like to notice these more and celebrate often.

Plus, I figure that if it's not natural for me to linger and to remember to celebrate these things on the sunny days when life is good, it sure won't be easy to do so in difficulty, to rejoice always.  I'm going to need practice -- lots of it.  And I'd better get started now.

So to celebrate (and because mustaches are just plain funny sometimes), here are some mustache pictures just for you... and me.

Photo from http://thelateststory.com/2011/05/27/5466/

Really, who knew an actual Mustache Bird exists:

Photo from http://www.thelensflare.com/gallery/p_bird_42690.php

And one more link.  I can't get the picture to post, but this may be my favorite mustachioed bird picture of all: http://www.flickr.com/photos/springlake/3730189358

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Thank you for celebrating with me today!

Poetry of Empty Space

Our local art museum, The Nelson-Atkins, is hosting a George Ault exhibit, complete with WWII era paintings like this: 

Bright Light at Russel's Corners, 1946

And this one:

January Full Moon, 1941

The gallery's promotional materials included that second painting on the cover, and though I don't make it to the visiting exhibits as often as I'd like, something about that painting compelled me to go.  

The peace.  Solitude.  Fresh bracing air.  

Apparently, Ault was stylizing a world of order and calm to contrast the uncertain turbulence of the age.  He created an idealized, almost eerie, peace.

Just looking at these Ault creations, I can hear the quiet.  A part of my soul relaxes, loosens its white-knuckled grip. I crave that peace, however idealized it may be.  

Accompanying the Ault paintings, were works by several of his contemporaries.  One artist, Charles Sheeler, was described as a "poet of empty places."

That's it!  That's what I love about these paintings, the poetic expression of empty space.  And that's what I'm looking for.  Empty space.  Room to be and to breathe.

This is perhaps why I've become a big Andrew Wyeth fan these past few years.  I love the spareness and simplicity of his paintings. 

Long Limb

Fence Line, 1976

Turkey Pond, 1944

Even his face was exquisite:

Andrew Wyeth, 1917-2009

Amidst all the clutter and obligations and hurry of my life, I look at Wyeth's work and feel the capacity, the poetry, of empty space.


Surprisingly, I feel a similar poetic feeling as I drive the middle school carpool -- a van-load of chatty, energetic teenagers-- home each day.  The route home takes me through broad stretches of countryside.  Soybean fields.  Cow pastures.  Sod farms.  


To most, the "beauty" would be easy to overlook.  It's scenic, but not that scenic, even for our area.  It's just ordinary countryside, with houses and fields and roads where people carry out their everyday lives.  


But despite the loquacious exuberance filling my van while I drive (perhaps even because of it), I can savor the space.  I can hear the poetry.  And my soul drinks deeply and breathes.




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One of my favorite albums this past year has been Brandon Flowers' "Flamingo."  It's on my list of top ten all-time favorite albums.  My favorite song on the album, "Playing with Fire," brings to mind country drives and Andrew Wyeth paintings.  In some inexplicable own way, it's a poem of empty spaces for me.  
  

(I suppose I should find it humorous rather than frustrating that this blog placed big empty spaces between the pictures.   I did not intend for those big blanks to be there and I cannot seem to correct them.  Oh the irony!)