From the Deep

I went to see for I had traveled deep

Inside myself my hurting self to keep

Wrapped up alone and cold and seeing there

Through telescope that reached to eyes and air.

I read just fine I walked and did not fall

What once had loomed and screamed grew quiet and small

I heard my words and saw them nod and smile.

Sufficient, I could rest inside awhile.

So weeping cries, they settled to an ache.

No longer did I fear that I would break

The tender me curled up and lay quite still

NohurtNotearsNorushNoloveNothrill.

I went to see for I had traveled deep

Inside myself my hurting self to keep

And took note that the thickness of her skin

Kept scary clutching claws from getting in.

But noticed too, the sunsets ceased to gleam

The moon fell flat without her reaching beam

Dogs licked. Annoyed, she pushed them out of sight

Friends called. I could not laugh. I said goodnight.

I saw the balance weighed and knew my choice

Climbed back inside despite a windy voice

And curled up watching life from far a deep

With one great tremor laid Myself to sleep.

Asleep I lay and numb contented I

had no intent of waking death to die.

But scent of safety woke me from the gray

And out I looked to softish warming day.

Awake! already asking, was there fear?

I found only a longing for the sky.

Lured I reached myself into my skin

Longing to Taste and See and know again.

Without hoorah without ceremony

As if helped by a power outside of me

One step one look one stanza at a time

Slow and steadily I made the climb.

Little Lady Katie

My sister's name is Katie. I have three sisters and I refer to them all as "my sister" when I am telling stories. This really bugs my friends. Katie is in charge of the family, and we all know it's best that way. No, "in charge" doesn't really do it justice... she is the master of ceremonies. Yes, that's good. Our family progresses as one big ceremony; my dad stable with love and amusement, my mom magic, me having visions and panic attacks, Ali simple, cooking and laughing and praying, Danny listening and advising and brothering, Keila as the entertainer and prophet. and Katie is the master of ceremonies.

I think I'm supposed to have some older sister driving force, but as far as I see it, (Katie, correct me if I'm wrong), my job is to love Katie, to protect her (I am still the older sister, and if you mess with her, I'll mess with you), to advise her when she asks, to take care of her when she lets me, and to go along with the plans she makes.

This works well because Katie, with her twinkling eye and stubborn assertiveness and ability to make anything fun, knows best. She puts together outfits, parties, and adventures with a wave of her hand (often holding an iphone, of course, but in her case she is its master, not the other way around).  She makes family reunions fun. Going to lunch is an adventure, getting dressed a festival. She coordinates with grace, effortlessly spreading prettiness and laughter everywhere she goes. She's been smiling since she was a baby. And the more she learns she doesn't have to smile, the truer her smiles are.

But Katie is not a silly girl. She is too loyal and competent and self assured for that. She says no when she needs to and she trusts the voice inside her. She prays and she obeys when she understands what to do. And she's one of the most generous people I know.

If you happen to tumble into Katie's world, if she happens to meet you and glisten and tilt her head back and laugh, you should know now that you are about to fall in love. You are going to want to take her on a date or hire her or be her new best friend or make her your maid of honor or best man depending on your current situation.

And she is my sister. Dang, I lucked out.

Beautiful Things

I am over-caffeinated, still holding my coffee cup, watching the sun shine down on California mountains and sunburned from yesterday. I'm filled with gratitude and wonder, and humbled by the grace and faith of a friend.

In honor of the above, I'd like to share the following beautiful things.

1. Josh Garrel's Love, War, and the Sea in Between

2. The following poem by Wendell Berry

Sabbath Poem X

• Tanya. Now that I am getting old,
  I feel I must hurry against time to tell you
  (as long ago I started out to do) everything,
  
  though I know that really there can be no end
  to all there is for me to say to you even of this,
  our temporary life. Sometimes it seems to me
  
  that I am divided from you by a shadow
  of incomprehension, mine or yours, or mind and yours;
  or that I am caught in the misery of selfhood
  
  forever. And I think that this must be
  the lot (may God help us) of all mortals who love
  each other: to know by truth that they do so,
  
  but also by error. Often now I am reminded
  that the time may come (for this is our pledge)
  when you will stand by me and know
  
  that I, though "living" still, have gone beyond
  all remembering, as my father went in time
  before me; or that I have gone, like my mother,
  
  into a time of pain, drugs, and still sleep.
  But I know now that in that great distance
  on the edge or beyond the edge of this world
  
  I will be growing alight with being. And (listen!)
  I will be longing to come back. This
  came to me in a dream, near morning,
  
  after I had labored through the night under
  this weight of earthly love. On time's edge, wakened,
  shaken, light and free, I will be longing
  
  to return, to seek you through the world,
  to find you (recognizing you by you beauty),
  to marry you, to make a place to live,
  
  to have children and grandchildren. The light
  of that place beyond time will show me the world
  as perhaps Christ saw it before His birth
  
  in the stable at Bethlehem. I will see that it is
  imperfect. It will be imperfect. (To whom would love
  appear but to those in most desperate need?) Yes,
  
  we would err again. Yes, we would suffer
  again. Yes, provided you would have it
  so, I would do it all again.

3. (I wish I could share with you) the dancing light of dew of leaves on trees on the sunrise side of the mountain (I would kill a student for putting that many prepositional phrases back-to-back), or the sound of snow slushing down to the creek, down the mountain, on a journey who knows where.

"I can say with reasonable confidence, 'I have fought the good fight of faith.'"

He is seventy-six years old and he qualified the above statement with, "though I have to wait to know for certain until the good Lord says, 'Well done, good and faithful servant.'" He has lived steadily, humbly, deeply for his seventy-six years. How rare. I know so many who walk away. I know so many who choose not to meditate, to reflect, to ask forgiveness.

I watch old friends change. I watch promises broken and terrible choices made. I watch the line between feast and debauchery be crossed, and then the feast is forgotten. The important thing is to not feel. To indulge. To feel good.

The man who said this last night shook sometimes when he spoke. He forgot what he was saying mid sentence. But he answered the question, "how?" "How did you do it? How did you live well and steadily?"

"Two things," he said. "I have walked with integrity of heart. And I have sought to encounter the living God."

Integrity. Integrated. These share the same root as the word integer. Whole number.There is much to say on this. But for now only questions. Is there wholeness in my heart? Do I disregard shadows? Do I make allowances, permissions? Do I grow accustomed to walking with a limp? I want to grow old and gray and wrinkly. I want to smile and lift my face to the sun and say, "I have fought the good fight."

I suppose

I suppose I'll blog today. Why not? When I walked among palm trees this morning, and now I'm looking at about two feet of snow in the mountains. When I'm drinking a glass of wine beside a wall of windows in the mountains of California. It's spring break and Lord knows I needed it.

I have sweet potatoes covered in olive oil, rosemary and thyme baking in the oven and I am making grilled avocado and brie sandwiches for myself and a friend. I spent the better part of yesterday curled up with a poetry book, carried by the words of better writers.

I've not wanted to pause the world the last few months. I've been a glutton of life. I learned new songs on the guitar and read Hunger Games and T.S. Eliot and Kathleen Norris and the Psalms. I stepped into the river of life, formed my body in the shape of a crucifix, and just floated, saying THANK YOU and accepting everything that has come my way. I've hugged students and been hugged, I've laughed and as the spring has come I have sat outside. I have friends with babies growing inside of them. I have other friends with cancer and we all have our broken hearts to share and exchange and mend.

Spring break began on Friday and I spent the first part with my parents. They live well and I live well with them. Then I hopped on a plane and spied on people. The woman next to me read a strategy book on dating. On the fourth date, you are supposed to be honest but yet mysterious. I'll keep that in mind. I eavesdropped on a family that didn't know I could speak Spanish. I asked for coffee and told the flight attendant she was lovely. She was.

And know I've broken open again. I'm in California and I'm writing. I can't stop. I am a student of life, and I am learning so much. I am a scientist, discovering my own heart and the heart of others, and I am an actress. I will live a tiny life and I will die someday soon, and I will be forgotten. But I will live it deeply. I will love and be loved. I will trust moderation, having known the sickness of needless indulgence.

I read this yesterday, and loved it. I hope you will too.

"Be sad, my heart, deep dangers wait they mirth

Thy soul’s waylaid by sea, by hell, by earth:

Hell has her hounds; earth, snares; the sea, a shelf

But most of all, my heart, beware thyself.”

Wonder

I’m not sure how to live in a world where kindness is a real possibility. Where gentle things can be protected, nurtured and grown. Where hardness can soften. I’m not sure how to live in a world where winds pick up flags and curly hair, where little girls walk into coffee shops in leotards, and old ladies wear overalls. Where bread rises with yeast and warmth, where people extend friendship and genuine smiles.

I’m not sure how to live in a world where Christ walked. The immovable point… in a stable. The Prince of Peace with a crown of thorns.

Where two trees with separate root systems can grow together, so close that the bark changes and becomes one tree. I saw this once. I felt the bark and it was not just interlaced; the trees had given into one another.

I put my head down on my book a few moments ago after reading about Russian princes ousting the Mongols. It is a history book but I’m too overwhelmed by the romance of it all. And I prayed, because I have to teach tomorrow and that means I cannot just sit here and imagine khans and princes fighting for Russia. And I cannot say every “Ferdinand” and “Isabella” out loud and be shocked by language and by my own tongue.

I love this world, this world of goose bumps (the hairs on my arms react to a touching story… what is THAT about?!) and pinstripes and white wicker porch furniture. Of delightful friends who teach me things. Of the Still Point (Triune, Steady, Good) that makes this dance possible. I know I love this world, but I’m not sure I know how to live.

Cemeteries and Somber Thanks

Tonight I watched the sun bow for the day. "I've finished a day," she said. "I rose this morning and bid the moon good day and goodbye. I stayed high at noon and came back for a brief magic hour after hiding underneath a cloud blanket."  I watched her bow from a cemetery where I felt small and insignificant and modestly grateful. She played her part. Have I played mine?