Saturday, May 26, 2012
Fresh Air: Yesterday's Actions. Today's Choices
Fresh Air: Yesterday's Actions. Today's Choices: Yesterday I got sunburned, worse than I've been in a long while. I bought some burn cream at a store called "Dollar Dollar" (yes, the cream ...
Yesterday's Actions. Today's Choices
Yesterday I got sunburned, worse than I've been in a long while. I bought some burn cream at a store called "Dollar Dollar" (yes, the cream cost a dollar; most things in the store cost more). I gave the cashier $1.10 for the cream and the penny I got in return went into my wallet... and that's the last time I remember seeing my wallet.
Today, when I went to put a card in it, I realized it was not in my purse. I called the financial institutions I'm connected with, put holds on my accounts, got new ones sent in some cases, and then set out to retrace my steps. No luck at the coffee shop where I studied, the store where I bought the cream, the parking spots I'd occupied, the security offices in the shopping center area, my car when I turned it inside out, et cetera. You get the picture; with each action that I took, more confirmation seemed to occur that the wallet was not be found.
I admit to you; if it's not found, it will be a very hard thing for me. My checkbooks were in there, unused gift cards (for coffee and Outback), personal notes and details, my drivers license, personal pictures that can't be easily replaced (if at all), and a lot of details about my identity, etc. In today's world, fear can be insidious about all the nefarious things that unscrupulous people can do if they use my info.
That is... if I choose fear.
Truthfully, fear has been too often my companion these last years as I've struggled (yes, that's the correct word) through seminary. I've had to learn whole new levels of courage, as my financial reality has always shadowed what was already a challenging path for me to take, for reasons I may write about in another blog -- but for now, just know this path has rocked my world in ways that rarely felt delightful.
Yet, God has always been faithful. He has been gracious in how He's given me favor and provision. So many of His children have blessed me in how they reflected His love and support toward me. I am grateful.
So, today, I find myself in a tired and headachey state, my heart is heavy and eyes watery for yet another loss/challenge at a crucial time in my academic and personal life. (I have three classes to complete in 3 weeks; one which feels like a near-impossibility... and it has a 20-25 page assignment due Monday... so losing my wallet - or it being stolen - this weekend is, yeah, about the worse-case scenario. And believe me when I say, there are things in my personal world that are exponentially more challenging/hurtful then my academic crud.)
But then I remember the song: "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away; blessed me the name of the Lord." I don't think the Lord took my wallet, y'all, but it didn't surprise Him when it went missing; He knew before I did. So, when I remember the song lyrics (based on scripture in Job 1), I have to ask myself - this woman who's preparing to be an ordained pastor - "Will you practice what you preach, Wallyce, or will you let the dark take over the light?"
It ain't easy to choose faith instead of fear; seek peace instead of angst; rest instead of frenetic emotional substitutes. It ain't easy, but it's do-able... with God's strength. See, I'm not sure I have any of my own strength left, so I'm going to literally have to put my money - and everything else of "mine" - where my mouth is... and trust God to get me through all that is in front of me. Otherwise, I'd be angrily and mournfully throwing in the proverbial towel and becoming a cynical, jaded funk of a female.
So, I choose faith.
And I sing children's praise songs when my mind starts getting overwhelmed with worry.
And I remember that yesterday wasn't just about getting sunburned and losing one of most valuable material things I have. Yesterday was also the day when I realized what a privilege it was going to be to be a pastor in whatever capacity God allows. I had such a sense (that I actually haven't had so much before) that there was joy in the sacredness of what He has called me to, in both ministry and media.
And I remembered that I had gone to the coffee shop/Dollar Dollar store in a part of LA that I rarely frequent to meet up with a new friend, who is about to graduate from USC. I met her through other challenging circumstances, that the world might call "coincidental," but I don't. When she opened up the Bible that I'd given her for graduation, she said something I, personally, had never heard so clearly from someone I care about: "This is the first time I've ever opened a Bible."
Ah, what a sweet gift God gave me to be able to share His Love Letter to us all with someone who'd not yet read it, and was so pleased to have her own copy.
So when I choose faith today, it's not the easiest choice for me... in the face of the fear of finances, academics, health and family issues, etc. But the God Who's always been faithful isn't going to stop being who He is just because I currently have a bunch of crud in my life. I believe Hebrews 13 when it says, "Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever." So, because Jesus also says He'll give me peace that passes all understanding, I'm gonna tell fear to kiss off, because I'm saving all my lovin' for the God Who will get me through...
...and Who will give me the strength to remember the best bits of yesterday's actions, even as I deal with all the difficulties that that the day before today brought.
It's a conscious choice to remember what the Lord gave me vs. what was taken away - but it's a choice worth making, and making and making again... as I breathe in and breathe out... fresh air.
Today, when I went to put a card in it, I realized it was not in my purse. I called the financial institutions I'm connected with, put holds on my accounts, got new ones sent in some cases, and then set out to retrace my steps. No luck at the coffee shop where I studied, the store where I bought the cream, the parking spots I'd occupied, the security offices in the shopping center area, my car when I turned it inside out, et cetera. You get the picture; with each action that I took, more confirmation seemed to occur that the wallet was not be found.
I admit to you; if it's not found, it will be a very hard thing for me. My checkbooks were in there, unused gift cards (for coffee and Outback), personal notes and details, my drivers license, personal pictures that can't be easily replaced (if at all), and a lot of details about my identity, etc. In today's world, fear can be insidious about all the nefarious things that unscrupulous people can do if they use my info.
That is... if I choose fear.
Truthfully, fear has been too often my companion these last years as I've struggled (yes, that's the correct word) through seminary. I've had to learn whole new levels of courage, as my financial reality has always shadowed what was already a challenging path for me to take, for reasons I may write about in another blog -- but for now, just know this path has rocked my world in ways that rarely felt delightful.
Yet, God has always been faithful. He has been gracious in how He's given me favor and provision. So many of His children have blessed me in how they reflected His love and support toward me. I am grateful.
So, today, I find myself in a tired and headachey state, my heart is heavy and eyes watery for yet another loss/challenge at a crucial time in my academic and personal life. (I have three classes to complete in 3 weeks; one which feels like a near-impossibility... and it has a 20-25 page assignment due Monday... so losing my wallet - or it being stolen - this weekend is, yeah, about the worse-case scenario. And believe me when I say, there are things in my personal world that are exponentially more challenging/hurtful then my academic crud.)
But then I remember the song: "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away; blessed me the name of the Lord." I don't think the Lord took my wallet, y'all, but it didn't surprise Him when it went missing; He knew before I did. So, when I remember the song lyrics (based on scripture in Job 1), I have to ask myself - this woman who's preparing to be an ordained pastor - "Will you practice what you preach, Wallyce, or will you let the dark take over the light?"
It ain't easy to choose faith instead of fear; seek peace instead of angst; rest instead of frenetic emotional substitutes. It ain't easy, but it's do-able... with God's strength. See, I'm not sure I have any of my own strength left, so I'm going to literally have to put my money - and everything else of "mine" - where my mouth is... and trust God to get me through all that is in front of me. Otherwise, I'd be angrily and mournfully throwing in the proverbial towel and becoming a cynical, jaded funk of a female.
So, I choose faith.
And I sing children's praise songs when my mind starts getting overwhelmed with worry.
And I remember that yesterday wasn't just about getting sunburned and losing one of most valuable material things I have. Yesterday was also the day when I realized what a privilege it was going to be to be a pastor in whatever capacity God allows. I had such a sense (that I actually haven't had so much before) that there was joy in the sacredness of what He has called me to, in both ministry and media.
And I remembered that I had gone to the coffee shop/Dollar Dollar store in a part of LA that I rarely frequent to meet up with a new friend, who is about to graduate from USC. I met her through other challenging circumstances, that the world might call "coincidental," but I don't. When she opened up the Bible that I'd given her for graduation, she said something I, personally, had never heard so clearly from someone I care about: "This is the first time I've ever opened a Bible."
Ah, what a sweet gift God gave me to be able to share His Love Letter to us all with someone who'd not yet read it, and was so pleased to have her own copy.
So when I choose faith today, it's not the easiest choice for me... in the face of the fear of finances, academics, health and family issues, etc. But the God Who's always been faithful isn't going to stop being who He is just because I currently have a bunch of crud in my life. I believe Hebrews 13 when it says, "Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever." So, because Jesus also says He'll give me peace that passes all understanding, I'm gonna tell fear to kiss off, because I'm saving all my lovin' for the God Who will get me through...
...and Who will give me the strength to remember the best bits of yesterday's actions, even as I deal with all the difficulties that that the day before today brought.
It's a conscious choice to remember what the Lord gave me vs. what was taken away - but it's a choice worth making, and making and making again... as I breathe in and breathe out... fresh air.
Friday, January 20, 2012
This blog called Life
Jan. 20, 2012
the night called for chocolate. i anwered the call at Aroma Cafe in studio city. intermingling textbook reading with blogwriting with brainstorming with missing my sweet friend Nina Ferguson... for whom I dashed into Aroma in September 2011 to bring a piece of cake with me from California to Virginia. Mourning is the process of grieving, my textbooks say. Tonight, mourning tastes like chocolate with a side serving of tears burning in the back of my eyes...
This was my Facebook status just a bit ago. It’s Friday night. I’m 40. Life is full of blessings: God. Family. Friends. Grad School. Health. Silver Sparkly Boots. And More. Currently, I’m sipping on ice water and savoring a wedge of decadent dark chocolate and peanut butter cake at my favorite local cafe.
Mixed in with the blessings and the grieving my friend’s passing process, I find myself vacillating between the acknowledgement of my blessings and the awareness of my burdens. There is a burden in my heart for knowing God’s will for my life beyond seminary. There’s a blessing in knowing He has always provided and He always will. There’s a burden in my emotional center for the soul mate I’ve not met. There’s a blessing in my spirit from knowing I could never be the woman I am and am becoming if I’d met him before this point in my life. This list of blessing/burden contrast could continue, but just now, I’ll let it lie quietly in the space I’ve given it in my heart.
... and I’ll wrap up the remains of my dessert gift to myself, refill my water cup, collect my computer bits and bobs and head home. And as I wrestle the covers tonight, mixing mind meanderings with sleep’s serenade, I’ll rest in the arms of the Lover of my Soul...
the night called for chocolate. i anwered the call at Aroma Cafe in studio city. intermingling textbook reading with blogwriting with brainstorming with missing my sweet friend Nina Ferguson... for whom I dashed into Aroma in September 2011 to bring a piece of cake with me from California to Virginia. Mourning is the process of grieving, my textbooks say. Tonight, mourning tastes like chocolate with a side serving of tears burning in the back of my eyes...
This was my Facebook status just a bit ago. It’s Friday night. I’m 40. Life is full of blessings: God. Family. Friends. Grad School. Health. Silver Sparkly Boots. And More. Currently, I’m sipping on ice water and savoring a wedge of decadent dark chocolate and peanut butter cake at my favorite local cafe.
Mixed in with the blessings and the grieving my friend’s passing process, I find myself vacillating between the acknowledgement of my blessings and the awareness of my burdens. There is a burden in my heart for knowing God’s will for my life beyond seminary. There’s a blessing in knowing He has always provided and He always will. There’s a burden in my emotional center for the soul mate I’ve not met. There’s a blessing in my spirit from knowing I could never be the woman I am and am becoming if I’d met him before this point in my life. This list of blessing/burden contrast could continue, but just now, I’ll let it lie quietly in the space I’ve given it in my heart.
... and I’ll wrap up the remains of my dessert gift to myself, refill my water cup, collect my computer bits and bobs and head home. And as I wrestle the covers tonight, mixing mind meanderings with sleep’s serenade, I’ll rest in the arms of the Lover of my Soul...
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Hugging the Curves
When I was a teenager, my uncle took me around the curvy mountain roads of North Carolina in his Dodge Viper. I loved it. I like roller coaster rides. This spring, I rode “California Screamin’” three times within a span of hours while I was at Disneyland with my college roommate. We graduated UNC-CH in 1994. When I was driving to my Meisner Method classes in Santa Monica several years ago, I’d intentionally take the canyon roads. I did this so I could create my own version of controlled roller coaster ride by hugging all the curves with my four-door Malibu on the roads in the region of the same name. Age does not diminish my appreciation for the centripetal forces required to safely and successfully take on the round parts of a road or a roller coaster.
Beginning years before my uncle took me touring in his Viper, I realized I had my own curves, but I didn’t like them, because it seemed no one else did either. It was in elementary school when I first remember being teased for being overweight; I was taunted by various male relatives for the same issue, and I found myself eating emotionally after my grandfather died when I was a preteen. Genetically, I take after the side of my family that isn’t known for being tall and skinny.
The truth was: it hurt my heart and sense of self to see this overweight person in the mirror with glasses and long red hair. (I liked the hair color; always have ☺). I didn’t like being different when lots of my friends were the budding cheerleader and pageant types. (“Been there, done that” to both involvements. Enjoyed them to a degree - but they weren’t really for me. I was more into the “mascot” and “actress” kinda opps.)
Let me clarify: I didn’t like just being seen as the overweight Wallyce with big body and an active mouth. Being different for other reasons became okay with me. So when I decided to diet between my sixth and seventh grade year, I went too far, and flirted with anorexia… I went from an “adult” size 12 to a size 6 in a period of months, and I didn’t tell my parents when I nearly fainted from not eating and hid on the floor beside my bed to recover. I also never mentioned how my lack of eating caused me to stumble onto a store window to brace myself when I’d been dropped off to shop on Madison Street in our hometown.
No, I actually found that though I couldn’t control what others thought of me, and I couldn’t control beloved family members suddenly dying, I could control the food I put in my mouth and I delighted in watching other people put more food in theirs than I had in mine. That, my friends, is unhealthy. See, an eating disorder is more about “control” then it is about food or weight or exercise, though those elements also come into play.
Fortunately for me, my parents didn’t allow me to stay starving myself for long, and I didn’t really deal with the “physical” components of anorexia for long. Unfortunately, the “psychological” components of my eating disorder stayed with me for more than 15 years. In fact, they have a habit of cropping up even today in all kinds of unwanted places.
Take for instance, Los Angeles. The City of Angels. The epi-center of self-image issues. Oh my sweet Jesus, WHY would God send me to this city for seminary and beyond when it’s the hell-bound sucking vortex for body image issues?!?
Why? Well, because He loves me and He’s even more tired than I am of how draining it is to be unsatisfied with my shape and size. In fact, He loves All of Us more than we love ourselves and I just think it has to grieve His heart how much we figuratively spit out our displeasure upon that which He created for joy and purpose.
Recently, the meniscus in my right knee tore in two places when I was at work. Now, my left knee is all aggravated because I’ve been favoring my right knee. With the exception of two years of church basketball (during which I guarded the opposing team member regardless of which team had the ball – ha!), I’m not the athletic type. But, ohmygoodness, I miss being able to walk for exercise, dance for fun, and generally move around, stand up or sit down without pain. Who cares what my body flippin’ looks like? I wanna feel better!
But actually, it goes even beyond physical shape, weight or fitness right now. I know plenty of slender people who deal with migraine headaches, irritable bowel syndrome, torn ligaments, marital health issues and more. I also know plenty of plus-sized people who are healthier overall than their smaller sized counterparts. Additionally, I’m well aware that obesity is a national health concern, and should be. Our country and the developed world do need to eat better and be healthier overall.
That said, image issues aren’t just about the size of one’s stomach or sex organs or the circumference of one’s thighs. If you saw all the Botox, breast implants and facial reconstructing whoozeewhats that I see in this city, you’d know how people “see themselves” is often unhealthy regardless of what they originally looked like, designed by their Creator. And I’m not just talking about females here.
So, I’ve decided “enough is enough.” I am going to remember how much I love curves, and I’m going to begin to better embrace the ones I have. I know me, so I know that my weight will likely always fluctuate, my face will forever be more or less round depending on how much chocolate cake I’ve eaten or how much exercise I’ve been able to do. However, please “pardon my French,” but I’m becoming damned determined to like what I see in the mirror, even as age and other issues do impact how it looks. If I lose weight, fine. If I stay the same, fine. Either way can be fabulous.
Today, I wore a fitted cotton maxi-dress to church. I wanted something long to cover up my mismatched knee wraps. The dress did that. It also hugged every curve I own, and in this season, there’s a plenty. I debated finding something else to wear; but then, I spritzed on some perfume, tied up the ends of my hem so I wouldn’t trip (the dress is designed to be worn with high heels - currently not a healthy option for me) and headed out to worship the One Who made me.
Somehow, when I was praising His Name, I didn’t feel any teasing or taunting. When I was lifting my hands, I didn’t hear any sighs or tsk tsk’s about the size of my hips. In fact, I don’t think one single solitary person cared what the scales said or what my dress label revealed about my size. Of course, I wasn’t auditioning for the lead in a rom-com, where your ability of sizzle in a swimsuit is a prerequisite to you being hired… but I’ll take being comfortable in my own skin any day over being willing to do anything and everything so others will approve. Been there, done that, too; the dividends are not worth the investments.
However, in all honesty, for myself and for others, it’s not just a matter of what other people think or say or suggest, it’s a matter of how we, as individuals, take on our overall health, including weight, exercise, emotional fitness, spiritual study, psychological well-being and more. Will we bemoan our lean-ness or criticize our curves… or will we embrace the way we’re designed, make the most of our lives as we can… and tell that condemning voice in our head to “shut up, go to hell and stay there”… and then get on with hugging the human we were always meant to be?
Beginning years before my uncle took me touring in his Viper, I realized I had my own curves, but I didn’t like them, because it seemed no one else did either. It was in elementary school when I first remember being teased for being overweight; I was taunted by various male relatives for the same issue, and I found myself eating emotionally after my grandfather died when I was a preteen. Genetically, I take after the side of my family that isn’t known for being tall and skinny.
The truth was: it hurt my heart and sense of self to see this overweight person in the mirror with glasses and long red hair. (I liked the hair color; always have ☺). I didn’t like being different when lots of my friends were the budding cheerleader and pageant types. (“Been there, done that” to both involvements. Enjoyed them to a degree - but they weren’t really for me. I was more into the “mascot” and “actress” kinda opps.)
Let me clarify: I didn’t like just being seen as the overweight Wallyce with big body and an active mouth. Being different for other reasons became okay with me. So when I decided to diet between my sixth and seventh grade year, I went too far, and flirted with anorexia… I went from an “adult” size 12 to a size 6 in a period of months, and I didn’t tell my parents when I nearly fainted from not eating and hid on the floor beside my bed to recover. I also never mentioned how my lack of eating caused me to stumble onto a store window to brace myself when I’d been dropped off to shop on Madison Street in our hometown.
No, I actually found that though I couldn’t control what others thought of me, and I couldn’t control beloved family members suddenly dying, I could control the food I put in my mouth and I delighted in watching other people put more food in theirs than I had in mine. That, my friends, is unhealthy. See, an eating disorder is more about “control” then it is about food or weight or exercise, though those elements also come into play.
Fortunately for me, my parents didn’t allow me to stay starving myself for long, and I didn’t really deal with the “physical” components of anorexia for long. Unfortunately, the “psychological” components of my eating disorder stayed with me for more than 15 years. In fact, they have a habit of cropping up even today in all kinds of unwanted places.
Take for instance, Los Angeles. The City of Angels. The epi-center of self-image issues. Oh my sweet Jesus, WHY would God send me to this city for seminary and beyond when it’s the hell-bound sucking vortex for body image issues?!?
Why? Well, because He loves me and He’s even more tired than I am of how draining it is to be unsatisfied with my shape and size. In fact, He loves All of Us more than we love ourselves and I just think it has to grieve His heart how much we figuratively spit out our displeasure upon that which He created for joy and purpose.
Recently, the meniscus in my right knee tore in two places when I was at work. Now, my left knee is all aggravated because I’ve been favoring my right knee. With the exception of two years of church basketball (during which I guarded the opposing team member regardless of which team had the ball – ha!), I’m not the athletic type. But, ohmygoodness, I miss being able to walk for exercise, dance for fun, and generally move around, stand up or sit down without pain. Who cares what my body flippin’ looks like? I wanna feel better!
But actually, it goes even beyond physical shape, weight or fitness right now. I know plenty of slender people who deal with migraine headaches, irritable bowel syndrome, torn ligaments, marital health issues and more. I also know plenty of plus-sized people who are healthier overall than their smaller sized counterparts. Additionally, I’m well aware that obesity is a national health concern, and should be. Our country and the developed world do need to eat better and be healthier overall.
That said, image issues aren’t just about the size of one’s stomach or sex organs or the circumference of one’s thighs. If you saw all the Botox, breast implants and facial reconstructing whoozeewhats that I see in this city, you’d know how people “see themselves” is often unhealthy regardless of what they originally looked like, designed by their Creator. And I’m not just talking about females here.
So, I’ve decided “enough is enough.” I am going to remember how much I love curves, and I’m going to begin to better embrace the ones I have. I know me, so I know that my weight will likely always fluctuate, my face will forever be more or less round depending on how much chocolate cake I’ve eaten or how much exercise I’ve been able to do. However, please “pardon my French,” but I’m becoming damned determined to like what I see in the mirror, even as age and other issues do impact how it looks. If I lose weight, fine. If I stay the same, fine. Either way can be fabulous.
Today, I wore a fitted cotton maxi-dress to church. I wanted something long to cover up my mismatched knee wraps. The dress did that. It also hugged every curve I own, and in this season, there’s a plenty. I debated finding something else to wear; but then, I spritzed on some perfume, tied up the ends of my hem so I wouldn’t trip (the dress is designed to be worn with high heels - currently not a healthy option for me) and headed out to worship the One Who made me.
Somehow, when I was praising His Name, I didn’t feel any teasing or taunting. When I was lifting my hands, I didn’t hear any sighs or tsk tsk’s about the size of my hips. In fact, I don’t think one single solitary person cared what the scales said or what my dress label revealed about my size. Of course, I wasn’t auditioning for the lead in a rom-com, where your ability of sizzle in a swimsuit is a prerequisite to you being hired… but I’ll take being comfortable in my own skin any day over being willing to do anything and everything so others will approve. Been there, done that, too; the dividends are not worth the investments.
However, in all honesty, for myself and for others, it’s not just a matter of what other people think or say or suggest, it’s a matter of how we, as individuals, take on our overall health, including weight, exercise, emotional fitness, spiritual study, psychological well-being and more. Will we bemoan our lean-ness or criticize our curves… or will we embrace the way we’re designed, make the most of our lives as we can… and tell that condemning voice in our head to “shut up, go to hell and stay there”… and then get on with hugging the human we were always meant to be?
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
What's Real is Real
Good Golly Moses... it's been a year and a half since I wrote a blog. Well, ugh. Where, did I, a writer, get off the writing-for-pure-pleasure path and begin to look at the keyboard as cursed with responsibility? I'll tell you where. I got off in grad school. It's not pretty when you have to admit that the very thing that should inspire you actually muzzles your creativity.
I love God and am privileged to study theology at a Spirit-filled seminary. But, my spirit misses the Spirit-ual experience it used to be to write words that felt like musical scores to my soul. Most of the writing I do - but have ceased to do well or on time - is composed of required responses in my online class and term papers that may come close to completing what the prof asked for... but increasingly leave me bereft of any other feeling than relief that I managed to eke out something that will allow me to pass a particular class. And yes, I know the previous sentence is a run-on, journalistic nightmare... but hey, it's my party, uh, blog and I can cry, uh, espouse if I want to. Lol. ;)
Seriously, I'm only writing this blog tonight because I realized I committed with my friend Kate Hinson --"The Quirky Redhead" area of the blogosphere -- to write a blog last week... and well, it's already this week. Ahem.
I'm sitting dressed in stupidly skimpy shorts and a tank top with my hair clipped up and my windows open trying to find it in me to actually assimilate the material I'm supposed to read and respond to for my OT online class by midnight tonight. Four hours to go and my motivation is only energized by my desire not to have to retake this class because I flunked it by not completing it. Been there. Done that. Would choose not to repeat that experience any more than I have to.
Meanwhile, my neck is tight, my right knee hurts and my left shin and ankle are decorated with multiple purple, blue and green bruises, so I'm feeling dandy, lemme tell ya. Then, just as I put on my mental boxing gloves to begin the perpetual fight against angst and aggravation, a stillness comes into my knee shaking soul. My mind slows, my breathing deepens and my emotions find a rest in the reality that...
The Spirit is whispering in my ear, "I Am here."
I love God and am privileged to study theology at a Spirit-filled seminary. But, my spirit misses the Spirit-ual experience it used to be to write words that felt like musical scores to my soul. Most of the writing I do - but have ceased to do well or on time - is composed of required responses in my online class and term papers that may come close to completing what the prof asked for... but increasingly leave me bereft of any other feeling than relief that I managed to eke out something that will allow me to pass a particular class. And yes, I know the previous sentence is a run-on, journalistic nightmare... but hey, it's my party, uh, blog and I can cry, uh, espouse if I want to. Lol. ;)
Seriously, I'm only writing this blog tonight because I realized I committed with my friend Kate Hinson --"The Quirky Redhead" area of the blogosphere -- to write a blog last week... and well, it's already this week. Ahem.
I'm sitting dressed in stupidly skimpy shorts and a tank top with my hair clipped up and my windows open trying to find it in me to actually assimilate the material I'm supposed to read and respond to for my OT online class by midnight tonight. Four hours to go and my motivation is only energized by my desire not to have to retake this class because I flunked it by not completing it. Been there. Done that. Would choose not to repeat that experience any more than I have to.
Meanwhile, my neck is tight, my right knee hurts and my left shin and ankle are decorated with multiple purple, blue and green bruises, so I'm feeling dandy, lemme tell ya. Then, just as I put on my mental boxing gloves to begin the perpetual fight against angst and aggravation, a stillness comes into my knee shaking soul. My mind slows, my breathing deepens and my emotions find a rest in the reality that...
The Spirit is whispering in my ear, "I Am here."
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I Will Dance, Dammit!
My grandmother said excessive cursing represented a shameful lack of vocabulary. I agree. As a rule, I endeavor not to curse – though I must admit to the “s” and “d” words peppering the air inside my car more frequently when I’m alone and frustrated in L.A. traffic. However, this morning, as I walked in the not-really-normal weather of the San Fernando Valley, “dammit” became part of my wet and windy warrior cry.
Let me explain: I took a walk today while the rain and hail (yes, y’all, there was hail today in L.A.) bounced off my hatted head and NASCAR-jacketed self. (I’ve got no particular affinity for the sport; it’s a hand-me-down windbreaker. However, these days, I would like to ride with an expert who knew how to drive real real fast. G-force, have at it.) You see, I have been fighting a funk of a particular sort for a long season. Call it life. Call it a malaise. Call it spiritual warfare. Whatever you or I call it, it’s a funk all the same.
And I wanna tell this funk to “eff off.” (Oops that’s another curse allusion. Grandmama, I’m sorry, but needs must.) Unlike Lady Macbeth, I’ve not been complicit in my husband’s murder (now, you’d have to have a husband for that, yes?) – however, her infamous cry: “Out, out damned spot,” is what I am telling my funk… even as the rain pours outside and in.
Recently, I discovered JJ Abrams and I agreed. In his commentary on the latest Star Trek movie, he echoed what I have said for years about appropriate times for cursing. He used the same example I’ve used numerous times. It’s this: when Harrison Ford, in one of the Indiana Jones movies, was running across a dangerous swinging bridge and away from some bad guys, he looks ahead and sees more bad guys coming at him from the other direction – so he utters the only curse word in the whole movie: “oh, Sh*t!” Now, I don’t know about you. But if you’re on a mile-high swinging bridge between two mountains and over roaring water…and you see evil is in front of you, and you know it’s behind you… “oh, brussel sprouts!” just doesn’t have the same kick. Affirmative?
This is how it was today when I was walking around Lake Balboa and the rain came pouring down, accompanied by hail and all matters of wind and such. I had been communing with God – o.k. I’d been in my head hollering out “help,” as I emotionally wrestled with Him about some ongoing issues in my life. I was doing this spiritual wrangling while determinedly taking a walk – because I think it’s important to “move it, move it, move it” when one feels the advent of a funk comin’ on.
So when stuff from the sky started falling, instead of running back home, I kept walking the same steady speed. Like the Madagascar character, I kept movin’ it while my yoga pants got heavy with moisture, my socks got increasingly wet (due to the holes in my tennis shoes), and my windbreaker took on water that would potentially damage the cell phone in my pocket (The verdict is still out on that one. My sweet phone with the hot pink plastic cover is sitting out in pieces with hopes it will dry out and work perfectly).
As all this was occurring, a desire to dance came upon me. The inner warrior in me rared* up and yelled a battle cry of the soul: “I will dance, dammit!” This stormy season – both literally and figuratively – WILL NOT steal my joy forever. It will not hold my mojo for ransom. It will not still the rhythm of my soles or the tapping of my toes. It will not paralyze my full-body spins. I WILL DANCE MIDST IT ALL.
I will not just tiptoe around the puddles of life. I will wade into them, stomp dancing my determination against defeat into their very watery depths. The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid? I will fear no evil for thou art with me, Father God.*
And the warrior met her Master…and He held out His Hand and said: "Let’s dance."
*not reared, rared – I love being from the South, y’all.
*Psalm 27:1; Psalm 23:4
Let me explain: I took a walk today while the rain and hail (yes, y’all, there was hail today in L.A.) bounced off my hatted head and NASCAR-jacketed self. (I’ve got no particular affinity for the sport; it’s a hand-me-down windbreaker. However, these days, I would like to ride with an expert who knew how to drive real real fast. G-force, have at it.) You see, I have been fighting a funk of a particular sort for a long season. Call it life. Call it a malaise. Call it spiritual warfare. Whatever you or I call it, it’s a funk all the same.
And I wanna tell this funk to “eff off.” (Oops that’s another curse allusion. Grandmama, I’m sorry, but needs must.) Unlike Lady Macbeth, I’ve not been complicit in my husband’s murder (now, you’d have to have a husband for that, yes?) – however, her infamous cry: “Out, out damned spot,” is what I am telling my funk… even as the rain pours outside and in.
Recently, I discovered JJ Abrams and I agreed. In his commentary on the latest Star Trek movie, he echoed what I have said for years about appropriate times for cursing. He used the same example I’ve used numerous times. It’s this: when Harrison Ford, in one of the Indiana Jones movies, was running across a dangerous swinging bridge and away from some bad guys, he looks ahead and sees more bad guys coming at him from the other direction – so he utters the only curse word in the whole movie: “oh, Sh*t!” Now, I don’t know about you. But if you’re on a mile-high swinging bridge between two mountains and over roaring water…and you see evil is in front of you, and you know it’s behind you… “oh, brussel sprouts!” just doesn’t have the same kick. Affirmative?
This is how it was today when I was walking around Lake Balboa and the rain came pouring down, accompanied by hail and all matters of wind and such. I had been communing with God – o.k. I’d been in my head hollering out “help,” as I emotionally wrestled with Him about some ongoing issues in my life. I was doing this spiritual wrangling while determinedly taking a walk – because I think it’s important to “move it, move it, move it” when one feels the advent of a funk comin’ on.
So when stuff from the sky started falling, instead of running back home, I kept walking the same steady speed. Like the Madagascar character, I kept movin’ it while my yoga pants got heavy with moisture, my socks got increasingly wet (due to the holes in my tennis shoes), and my windbreaker took on water that would potentially damage the cell phone in my pocket (The verdict is still out on that one. My sweet phone with the hot pink plastic cover is sitting out in pieces with hopes it will dry out and work perfectly).
As all this was occurring, a desire to dance came upon me. The inner warrior in me rared* up and yelled a battle cry of the soul: “I will dance, dammit!” This stormy season – both literally and figuratively – WILL NOT steal my joy forever. It will not hold my mojo for ransom. It will not still the rhythm of my soles or the tapping of my toes. It will not paralyze my full-body spins. I WILL DANCE MIDST IT ALL.
I will not just tiptoe around the puddles of life. I will wade into them, stomp dancing my determination against defeat into their very watery depths. The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid? I will fear no evil for thou art with me, Father God.*
And the warrior met her Master…and He held out His Hand and said: "Let’s dance."
*not reared, rared – I love being from the South, y’all.
*Psalm 27:1; Psalm 23:4
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Peeled Carrots and a Kissed Cross
Recently, I spent nearly two months in Slovakia. While there, I became enamored with village life, especially for the short season in which I was experiencing it during my mini-sabbatical. Dunno how I'd be if I had to live there long-term. Think I might miss coffee shops and cinemas and worshipping in English.
But I believe there will likely always be a part of my soul that yearns for respite in Slovakia every 2-5 years. That village has a home in my heart. You see, I was so warmly welcomed into the community; I found that though few people spoke English fluently and I, of course, do not speak Slovak fluently... effective communication was still possible
Now, that I've left the village, there are still a set of images that have been coming back to me as onward I've sojourned.
I met a friend's elderly mother while I was there. She was visiting the village for a week or two. This woman has had a hard life, especially in the past. She was married to an alcoholic. They lived in Eastern Slovakia, known to be the poorer part of the Slavic nation. Her family did not always have running water in the house. Some of her seven children have made poor marriage choices ( which have included alcoholism, questionable businesses, ambivalent relationships). Yet life does not have to be so hard for her, now, as modern additions are possible and some of her children have the ability to provide differently for her. Her husband has passed on, and she has numerous grandchildren who could bring her joy.
She has always attended mass daily when possible, and while in the village, she would often hold onto her rosary beads and pray in the quiet of the day. One day as she was cleaning windows, I gave her a cross hand carved by Slovak artisans. The cross was not a crucifix, rather it was empty, which for me, beautifully signifies the freedom that can be found because of the Resurrection. That afternoon, I trusted in the language that was not spoken, but eternal, to communicate my care for her and my desire to find common ground between her world and mine. When I gave the carving to her, she smiled broadly (a rare event) and and immediately brought the wooden cross to her lips and kissed it.
But she wouldn't use a peeler for her carrots.
Let me explain: there was a compost bucket where she was visiting. It was on the floor by the trash can, and was covered with a lid to keep the smell from wafting into the kitchen and the wine flies from congregating around this bio fertilizer in the making. Most people in the house would peel and prepare fruits, vegetables, etc. on the counter so they could stand upright. Then, they would uncover the bucket briefly and dump in the scraps and peels before quickly replacing the lid. But not this babka.
After she pulled carrots out of the ground from the nearby garden, she took a knife, bent over the opened bucket on the floor and labored to scrape off the carrots of their soiled coverings. When I saw her thus involved, I shuffled through the utensil drawer and found a ceramic peeler - the newest and best in food prep tool ware - internet ordered from abroad. With the newer invention in hand, I tapped her softly on the shoulder and indicated to its potential. She immediately shook her head to the offer and continued to double over... knife-scraping the peelings on the carrots into the questionably aromatic compost bucket. She was unwilling to experience the delights of modern kitchenware.
My heart aches for all of us who stay uncomfortably mired in areas of our lives that are not perfumed with freedom when it's right there tapping on the shoulder of our souls...
My prayer is that there is a continuance of letting go. May we let go of all the ways we bend over double and slowly scrape away at that which could be deliciously free of yuck... and may we reach out to accept what has been lovingly offered, relishing in the rewards of alignment with the Spirit.
But I believe there will likely always be a part of my soul that yearns for respite in Slovakia every 2-5 years. That village has a home in my heart. You see, I was so warmly welcomed into the community; I found that though few people spoke English fluently and I, of course, do not speak Slovak fluently... effective communication was still possible
Now, that I've left the village, there are still a set of images that have been coming back to me as onward I've sojourned.
I met a friend's elderly mother while I was there. She was visiting the village for a week or two. This woman has had a hard life, especially in the past. She was married to an alcoholic. They lived in Eastern Slovakia, known to be the poorer part of the Slavic nation. Her family did not always have running water in the house. Some of her seven children have made poor marriage choices ( which have included alcoholism, questionable businesses, ambivalent relationships). Yet life does not have to be so hard for her, now, as modern additions are possible and some of her children have the ability to provide differently for her. Her husband has passed on, and she has numerous grandchildren who could bring her joy.
She has always attended mass daily when possible, and while in the village, she would often hold onto her rosary beads and pray in the quiet of the day. One day as she was cleaning windows, I gave her a cross hand carved by Slovak artisans. The cross was not a crucifix, rather it was empty, which for me, beautifully signifies the freedom that can be found because of the Resurrection. That afternoon, I trusted in the language that was not spoken, but eternal, to communicate my care for her and my desire to find common ground between her world and mine. When I gave the carving to her, she smiled broadly (a rare event) and and immediately brought the wooden cross to her lips and kissed it.
But she wouldn't use a peeler for her carrots.
Let me explain: there was a compost bucket where she was visiting. It was on the floor by the trash can, and was covered with a lid to keep the smell from wafting into the kitchen and the wine flies from congregating around this bio fertilizer in the making. Most people in the house would peel and prepare fruits, vegetables, etc. on the counter so they could stand upright. Then, they would uncover the bucket briefly and dump in the scraps and peels before quickly replacing the lid. But not this babka.
After she pulled carrots out of the ground from the nearby garden, she took a knife, bent over the opened bucket on the floor and labored to scrape off the carrots of their soiled coverings. When I saw her thus involved, I shuffled through the utensil drawer and found a ceramic peeler - the newest and best in food prep tool ware - internet ordered from abroad. With the newer invention in hand, I tapped her softly on the shoulder and indicated to its potential. She immediately shook her head to the offer and continued to double over... knife-scraping the peelings on the carrots into the questionably aromatic compost bucket. She was unwilling to experience the delights of modern kitchenware.
My heart aches for all of us who stay uncomfortably mired in areas of our lives that are not perfumed with freedom when it's right there tapping on the shoulder of our souls...
My prayer is that there is a continuance of letting go. May we let go of all the ways we bend over double and slowly scrape away at that which could be deliciously free of yuck... and may we reach out to accept what has been lovingly offered, relishing in the rewards of alignment with the Spirit.
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