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!