Remember that saying from elementary school? It goes along with the letter people, cartons of chocolate milk and carrot sticks, impossibly tall steps to climb on to the bus and praying I would never have to go to the bathroom. That's what I remember from my first school, 1st-3rd grade.
But here we are on March 1st and it is perfectly blustery and cold and damp. The rain is coming in sprinkles, shoved around by the east wind. It's landing on soft, mushy, long grass waist deep in mud. Every once in a while I smell something like dill.
I've been walking uphill lately and for the last week there has been a stream of water coming down the street.
I keep forgetting my coat.
David hasn't worn jeans to school for a week and a half.
Corinne doesn't mind walking to rehearsal.
Ben's glove was found in the back yard.
The stupor has gone, the misty vision lifted, the weights of the world sluffing off, I run a little faster, I climb a little quicker, I'm more sure of myself and less worried. It's easier to love and faster to forgive.
I find myself thinking about the ocean and that beautiful road that climbs over the Sierras.
Do you know what this means?
It's March. It's spring. I'm glad.
Thank you winter for reminding me how blessed I am that the snow melts, the cold wind blows briefly, the birds fly back, the flowers only sleep, the leaves were right there all along, and the sun was just on holiday.
I am still loved, still blessed, still adored.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Dai.
"Jesus is like Santa, but not fat. And better. He gives everyone what they want. Think of how many gifts He's gived. Think of all the people on the earth. And He's answered every single wish." - Dai Wadley.
Friday, January 17, 2014
The burden and delight of love - Muses from La Traviata
Opera fascinates me.
Not in the -- I can't get enough of it -- kind of way, but more in the -- really? -- kind of way.
But I'm drawn back to it. "Ok, let's try this again."
Is it the 19th century's version of 8th grade drama? But because it's set in another century and you have to go to a university to be able to sing it, then fancy people without enough to do with their time or money will pay $85 to sit in a semi-decent seat to listen to it sung in a language, that albeit beautiful, is not their mother tongue?
I submit, that when examined, the plot line is repeated in grade schools throughout the world. I want to write an opera set over three days in a jr high school. Someone will certainly have to die, but that would be the only real shocker. The rest is the same.
"I don't know how to love, wait - he loves me, so I love him, I've changed my mind, I do know how to love and we are together, but wait - I might ruin his reputation, so I'll go back to someone who is no good for me. This makes him angry and mean. But he is angry and mean because he loves me. So I have no choice but to love him. I do. He does. It's too late, I'm dying."
This is La Traviata - yes? And despite my "really?", I'm completely smitten.
It's gorgeous and passionate and I am drawn in to the story and I fall in love with Alfredo and the sheer magnitude of emotion that erupts on to the stage and into the first few rows is like having your soul cleansed of guile and cynicism.
Opera is a love story boiled down until all of the extras have evaporated into the steamy air, then what's left is baked in the juices of emotion until so tender that the insides come flowing out so freely that one is pushed along in a rush of rich turkey basting love. Delish.
And when it's over, you are exhumed of all the grit and grime that once encrusted your weary heart. And now you are able to love; better and longer and with gratitude and vigor. Because love is a burden and a delight.
I submit again - 8th graders know this. Well, they've just begun to discover it. By sophomore year it is well covered territory, and they are either delighting in it or carrying an eternal burden. They get it. They get the inevitability of attraction and the capricious nature of men and women. It's alive in them. You don't have to have cushy red seats and gold leafed everything and woodwork and tassels and impractically long dresses and tuxedos that don't quit. But somehow love does look more mature all dressed up. It's true.
But the next time you need a purging of the soul, and you don't have $85 to spare, strike up a conversation with your local high school freshman. You'll learn about the burdens and delights of love. And you'll be better somehow. Especially if you validate that passion and pain.
Maybe that's how I should look at it.
Opera is validation - of all we ever experienced in the world of love before we were swept up by practicality, responsibility, and a house in the burbs. Maybe that's why it carries us away. We know the story.
Thankfully, consumption doesn't take us out of the game. We live to die another day.
Not in the -- I can't get enough of it -- kind of way, but more in the -- really? -- kind of way.
But I'm drawn back to it. "Ok, let's try this again."
Is it the 19th century's version of 8th grade drama? But because it's set in another century and you have to go to a university to be able to sing it, then fancy people without enough to do with their time or money will pay $85 to sit in a semi-decent seat to listen to it sung in a language, that albeit beautiful, is not their mother tongue?
I submit, that when examined, the plot line is repeated in grade schools throughout the world. I want to write an opera set over three days in a jr high school. Someone will certainly have to die, but that would be the only real shocker. The rest is the same.
"I don't know how to love, wait - he loves me, so I love him, I've changed my mind, I do know how to love and we are together, but wait - I might ruin his reputation, so I'll go back to someone who is no good for me. This makes him angry and mean. But he is angry and mean because he loves me. So I have no choice but to love him. I do. He does. It's too late, I'm dying."
This is La Traviata - yes? And despite my "really?", I'm completely smitten.
It's gorgeous and passionate and I am drawn in to the story and I fall in love with Alfredo and the sheer magnitude of emotion that erupts on to the stage and into the first few rows is like having your soul cleansed of guile and cynicism.
Opera is a love story boiled down until all of the extras have evaporated into the steamy air, then what's left is baked in the juices of emotion until so tender that the insides come flowing out so freely that one is pushed along in a rush of rich turkey basting love. Delish.
And when it's over, you are exhumed of all the grit and grime that once encrusted your weary heart. And now you are able to love; better and longer and with gratitude and vigor. Because love is a burden and a delight.
I submit again - 8th graders know this. Well, they've just begun to discover it. By sophomore year it is well covered territory, and they are either delighting in it or carrying an eternal burden. They get it. They get the inevitability of attraction and the capricious nature of men and women. It's alive in them. You don't have to have cushy red seats and gold leafed everything and woodwork and tassels and impractically long dresses and tuxedos that don't quit. But somehow love does look more mature all dressed up. It's true.
But the next time you need a purging of the soul, and you don't have $85 to spare, strike up a conversation with your local high school freshman. You'll learn about the burdens and delights of love. And you'll be better somehow. Especially if you validate that passion and pain.
Maybe that's how I should look at it.
Opera is validation - of all we ever experienced in the world of love before we were swept up by practicality, responsibility, and a house in the burbs. Maybe that's why it carries us away. We know the story.
Thankfully, consumption doesn't take us out of the game. We live to die another day.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Without limitation.
I am a creation endowed with His creative power.
He sets me in motion.
I see. I wonder. I wish. I imagine. I understand. I create.
I am the seed of His faith.
We dance so our bodies can speak.
We sing so our hearts can fly.
We paint so our eyes can touch.
We write so our souls can breathe.
Time limits, body's decay, mind's doubt, heart's ache, and the soul desires anyway.
One day I want to understand creativity so perfectly that I will be able to love without limitation.
As He does.
He sets me in motion.
I see. I wonder. I wish. I imagine. I understand. I create.
I am the seed of His faith.
We dance so our bodies can speak.
We sing so our hearts can fly.
We paint so our eyes can touch.
We write so our souls can breathe.
Time limits, body's decay, mind's doubt, heart's ache, and the soul desires anyway.
One day I want to understand creativity so perfectly that I will be able to love without limitation.
As He does.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
How to live an unremarkable life: and other blogable thoughts.
I keep a running list of things that I'd like to blog about someday. Some of them I haven't tackled because I haven't found the time, others because they frighten me so, and some because I forget about the list when I sit down to write. So in case I don't find all the time in this life time, here's the current list at any rate...
*One could describe middle age, and for all I know old age as well, as a recovery from youth. A recovery from the lies we believed, the ones we told ourselves, the perceptions we misunderstood, the ones we naively held up as virtuous, the boys we loved, the girls we revered... At 39 I'm on the road to recovery, but it may take another 10 years to get back on my feet completely.
*Watching sports with Rich has become a talent of mine. More than a pastime or a skill, but something that enriches my life and in which I find joy in the pursuit of excellence.
*My English friends take the middle syllable out of my name. I should continue my reports of English/American studies. There is so much more to tell.
*Marriage pulls the dysfunction out of our souls, pulls it to the surface and sets it on fire.
*I'm not brilliant and how to recover from that realisation.
*You know that incredible moment when the sun light is more horizontal than vertical and as you start to close your heavy lids, the light reflects off of your lashes and they scatter tiny circles of sunshine?
*Whipping Cream is wonderful. Whipping cream and coconut. I can't get enough. I dropped a single waffle square drooping with real whipping cream into the book I am reading. Ate the square and licked the page clean. I feel completely satisfied with my ability to make waffles. Next… to conquer the process of cleaning the iron. Honestly, I lack the passion for it. Or other squeaky clean pursuits.
*I have a strong desire to improve my vocabulary.
*Why don’t I get out of the bed to take my contacts out?, and other silly habits I should have overcome by the age of 15. They fritz against my eyeballs and I can feel the crust taking hold. Its gets harder and harder to blink and I sit in a permanent squint. Its hard to think of much else, but I don’t get up. I’m warm.
*"I need not hurry myself; there is no good in that - but I must work on in full camases and serenity, as regularly and concentratedly as possible, as briefly and concisely as possible". - Van Gogh. How could someone with so much clarity as evidenced in this sentence, also be so tormented? I think I know a little about that answer.
*"By painting the sky, Van Gogh was really able to see it and adore it better than if he had just looked at it." - Ueland. You will never understand your husband unless you write his story. What a challenge. I want to do this.
*The rewards of an unremarkable life, and how to live one purposefully. This is important.
*My creative pursuits: writing of late, losing weight - a lifetime objective, loving, forgiving, teaching,
adoring Rich, performing, mothering; and how they are all the same objective.
*Writing: What I know so far. It is not a performance, but a generosity.
*"If one is imaginative enough, one can love others with all their limitations." THIS IS IT! This is the reason to foster creativity, empathy, forgiveness and generosity. My favorite virtues. - Maybe this is where I'll start.
*One could describe middle age, and for all I know old age as well, as a recovery from youth. A recovery from the lies we believed, the ones we told ourselves, the perceptions we misunderstood, the ones we naively held up as virtuous, the boys we loved, the girls we revered... At 39 I'm on the road to recovery, but it may take another 10 years to get back on my feet completely.
*Watching sports with Rich has become a talent of mine. More than a pastime or a skill, but something that enriches my life and in which I find joy in the pursuit of excellence.
*My English friends take the middle syllable out of my name. I should continue my reports of English/American studies. There is so much more to tell.
*Marriage pulls the dysfunction out of our souls, pulls it to the surface and sets it on fire.
*I'm not brilliant and how to recover from that realisation.
*You know that incredible moment when the sun light is more horizontal than vertical and as you start to close your heavy lids, the light reflects off of your lashes and they scatter tiny circles of sunshine?
*Whipping Cream is wonderful. Whipping cream and coconut. I can't get enough. I dropped a single waffle square drooping with real whipping cream into the book I am reading. Ate the square and licked the page clean. I feel completely satisfied with my ability to make waffles. Next… to conquer the process of cleaning the iron. Honestly, I lack the passion for it. Or other squeaky clean pursuits.
*I have a strong desire to improve my vocabulary.
*Why don’t I get out of the bed to take my contacts out?, and other silly habits I should have overcome by the age of 15. They fritz against my eyeballs and I can feel the crust taking hold. Its gets harder and harder to blink and I sit in a permanent squint. Its hard to think of much else, but I don’t get up. I’m warm.
*"I need not hurry myself; there is no good in that - but I must work on in full camases and serenity, as regularly and concentratedly as possible, as briefly and concisely as possible". - Van Gogh. How could someone with so much clarity as evidenced in this sentence, also be so tormented? I think I know a little about that answer.
*"By painting the sky, Van Gogh was really able to see it and adore it better than if he had just looked at it." - Ueland. You will never understand your husband unless you write his story. What a challenge. I want to do this.
*The rewards of an unremarkable life, and how to live one purposefully. This is important.
*My creative pursuits: writing of late, losing weight - a lifetime objective, loving, forgiving, teaching,
adoring Rich, performing, mothering; and how they are all the same objective.
*Writing: What I know so far. It is not a performance, but a generosity.
*"If one is imaginative enough, one can love others with all their limitations." THIS IS IT! This is the reason to foster creativity, empathy, forgiveness and generosity. My favorite virtues. - Maybe this is where I'll start.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
English part deux
If I learned about English/American speech in 2011, I learnt about English/American spelling in 2012.
realise
baptise
organise
learnt
alright
colour
favourite
neighbour
paralyse
dialogue
quarelled
skilful
ageing
programme
cheque
cosy
grey
gaol
mould
plough
centre
theatre
zed
and this is just the beginning love...
realise
baptise
organise
learnt
alright
colour
favourite
neighbour
paralyse
dialogue
quarelled
skilful
ageing
programme
cheque
cosy
grey
gaol
mould
plough
centre
theatre
zed
and this is just the beginning love...
Clichés.
Woa. A whirlwind of life the last month. Douglas has been in the MTC for 25 days. I can assure you that all of the missionary-mom clichés apply, so feel free to shout them out or pencil them in. People kept telling me that the first week was going to be hard, but without having experienced it before I obviously didn't know what to expect really. It took a good 10 days after the first week had passed before I could explain what that first week was like. I had to keep reminding my sub-conscious that he hadn't died. If the sub-conscious is the gut of the brain - that was my brain's gut reaction - he'd died. Little things would trigger the thought process; his sock on the bathroom floor, accidentally calling David - Douglas, packing his last few shirts, finding his boots in the trunk of my car, coming home to an empty house for lunch, talking to the bank about his account, Jessica wearing his hat, and of course his uninhabited bedroom. It was a collection of heart sinking sorrow moments, combined with jubilation at the immediate reminder that the gut reaction was wrong and this boy was coming home to us - eventually. Sympathy for friends who have lost children or loved ones was overwhelming during that week and I prayed so fervently for dear ones.
I testify that my favorite cliché from the last month is that hearing from said missionary is like oxygen for the heart and soul. It's true! No wait. Maybe it's that the missionary is having such an incredible time learning about their purpose in the MTC that they don't show any signs of missing their family. Oh, but - there's also the one about feeling closer as a family and unified and all of that hoop-lah. There is a lack of original thought or experience implied in clichés, but when it has not been a truism in your own life clichés are total game changers. We are changed. Life is better. It tastes so good.
I testify that my favorite cliché from the last month is that hearing from said missionary is like oxygen for the heart and soul. It's true! No wait. Maybe it's that the missionary is having such an incredible time learning about their purpose in the MTC that they don't show any signs of missing their family. Oh, but - there's also the one about feeling closer as a family and unified and all of that hoop-lah. There is a lack of original thought or experience implied in clichés, but when it has not been a truism in your own life clichés are total game changers. We are changed. Life is better. It tastes so good.
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