Magic

“I never knew I was creating a world which was an anthithesis to the world around me which was full of sorrows, full of wars, full of difficulties. I was creating the world I wanted, and into this world, once it is created, you invited others and then you attract those who have affinities and this becomes a universe.”

Anais Nin, The Artist as Magician

Sweetest days

Embrace the darkness

In this house

How different would our world be today if we actually did this in our "houses"--in our private homes, our families, our communities, our cities, our world? I want to hang this on our wall!

A little darkness

I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you're in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it's happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.

Mary Oliver | "The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac"

no crystal stair

This morning, in order to stem the tearful flood of "Why can't I stay home?" and "I hate school," I decided to give a little history lesson about some very brave brown-skinned boys and girls in a place called Little Rock. My kids' reaction: "I don't understand, Mommy. Why couldn't those kids go to school? I don't get it." This, from the boys whose way to tell their Auntie Dee (black goddess) from their Auntie E (pale redhead) was that Erin has curly hair.

I didn't even get going on the kids I met at Mi Refugio in Guatemala, who live in the city dump and whose wildest dream is to wear a uniform and learn to read and write. Or the kids working the fields near San Rafael, whose "homes" make our chicken coop look like a palace. I decided not to bring up the kids I taught in Quito, who faced prejudice every day for being "indios." I left out Daniel's stories of working at a mission hospital in middle-of-nowhere Angola and how patients had to scrape together their own medical supplies so they could have surgery.

Now I'm home, behind on work and surrounded by the detritus of days of no school, pondering that conversation. How do I protect my children's color-blind innocence while also teaching them how to fight for what is right?

I don't want to shovel out guilt-trips or worse, harden their hearts to the fabled "starving children in Africa." When I went on my first mission trip to Ecuador at age 15, I witnessed poverty I'd never imagined. I was shocked. I was right to be shocked. But after many experiences working and volunteering in poor communities, I quickly realized that the tearful histrionics of poverty-tourists don't help the person suffering. Rolling up your sleeves, actually talking to the person, supporting local, grass-roots efforts that are led by people who live there and understand the socio-cultural nuances: these are ways to really help.

Nice musings, but on a practical level, how do I raise my boys to be both strong and sensitive? On the one hand, I want them to recognize the blessings and privileges they take for granted. On the other hand, I'm not a fan of shoving adult issues in children's faces. I don't think children should be listening to NPR updates on ISIS or watching news flashes on hurricanes and Ferguson. I'm all for teaching children to do something practical for the poor, needy, and oppressed. As a Christian, I believe Jesus calls us to mercy and to action. However, I think we destroy our children's innocence when we expose them to world problems so young. If I feel crushed by the injustice and violence of our world, how will my children--with developing brains and hearts on their sleeve--navigate that avalanche of information?

Part of what bugs me is that some of their complaints about school are 100% valid: exhausting standardized tests, recesses cut short for more desk-work, a highly academic environment with not enough hands-on learning, not to mention the extra challenge of doing everything in a second language. At the same time, I don't want to raise kids who will end up like some of my college students, two of whom wrote me today to complain about my "unfair grading" and "vague" paper assignment. Interesting, that strange notion that I might expect a student to actually read and respond to my assignment prompt. And I must say, it's a mystery to me how a 500-word description of essay assignments, a 300-word essay prompt, individual feedback for your proposed thesis, and a 500-word, detailed sample rubric (all for a 500-word paper) can qualify as "vague." From what I can tell, today's college students spend about 20% of their time throwing up crap on a page while simultaneously checking facebook and texting friends, and about 80% of their time whining about life being unfair. These days, the only reason I keep teaching is because of the noble few who do the work honestly and surprise themselves by learning to love literature. Perhaps I should send this to my students. My point? As a mother, these are not the kind of young men I want to send into the world.

As an educator, I do want my children (and my students) to love school. I want them to be challenged and I want them to have fun. I feel sick to my stomach when they say they hate school. I worry that boys are falling through the cracks of our educational system. I re-visit our torturous elementary-school decision, going back to the drawing board where I find some high-paying job (good luck with an English degree) and we take out personal loans to fund an uber-progressive, expensive school. Or I decide I should cancel my modest career aspirations, put myself on Zanax, and start homeschooling. Or we move to a farm, start weaving our own clothes and eating homegrown sprouts and we un-school. I want them to love learning! 

As I swirl away into panic zone--all before 8am, mind you--I hear Daniel's voice telling me something I find truly shocking: Not every child is a school-loving bookworm like me. On the whole he didn't love school either; the best part of his day was going home. And yet my husband is clearly a smart and well-educated man. Public school taught him how to get along with people from lots of different backgrounds, how to be true to his beliefs, how to discipline himself, and of course, some facts that proved useful along the way. But for him, the best learning happened in conversations around the dinner table, summers in Muskoka and on mission trips, and playing outside in nature.

And before I overhaul our entire life, let's be honest: the main reason my boys are whining about school is that they haven't GONE to school more than three days in a row in weeks. Who wouldn't want to cozy up at home, play with Lego, and eat cereal all day while Mom cleans up after you?

I want my boys to have inner resilience and courage. I want them to be men of integrity, like their Dad, like their grandfathers and their uncles. I want them to have a spiritual foundation and relationship with God that gives them strength when life is hard, that teaches them how to "do justly and love mercy and walk humbly with their God." Some days this task seems far too hard for little old me.

I just taught this poem in my online literature course. Maybe it's time to read it to my boys (and to myself).

"Mother to Son" | Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

when the news hurts too much

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Walt Whitman | "O Me! O Life!"

shabby

If you're feeling shabby and worn, maybe it's because you've been loved so well.

God's Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

    It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

    It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

    And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

    And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Gerard Manley Hopkins | 1877

Happy New Year!

Here is where I've spent most of the day. Sick on the couch, while my generous husband wrangles the energetic kids. I've read a lot of Tartine Number 3, knitted a few rounds on some finger-less mittens. Mainly I've just felt sick as a dog. It doesn't help that I feel sad being so far from my family. Lying here unable to do much, I've worked myself into a lather imagining all the writing, bread-baking, knitting, organizing, teaching, spiritual growing, house-overhauling, creative mothering, traveling, exercising, better picture-taking, healthy cooking, learning, etc. I want to tackle this year.

Thinking about all that got me so tired and irritable I went back to lolling on the couch.

So maybe my biggest hope for today, much less 2015, is to be in the moment. To truly experience and allow myself to feel and absorb the goodness, connection, and beauty in my life right this second. Without any adjustments or striving or if-onlys, can I find gratitude and joy right now, right here?

Wishing you and yours a beautiful 2015, full of adventure, contentment, and true love.

Some words from Tennyson's In Memoriam (1849) to usher in a new year:

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

   The flying cloud, the frosty light:

   The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

   The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind

   For those that here we see no more;

   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

   And ancient forms of party strife;

   Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

   The faithless coldness of the times;

   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

   The civic slander and the spite;

   Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

   Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

   Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Merry Christmas!

yup

keep it close

enough

Happy Thanksgiving!

a winter prayer

Last Sunday, one of our pastors read this beautiful prayer she wrote. I hope this prayer nourishes you as it did me.

A Winter Prayer

Rev. Char Elliott

Let us huddle together this morning,

In our community, a place of warmth in our lives,

As we share the flame of hope and connection.

Let us allow the frost of isolation and bitterness to melt away,

As we open ourselves to a sense of peace and spirit.

We extend our thoughts to all those who are cold this morning,

Lacking shelter to keep them warm.

Let us wrap our prayers around them and each other like warm scarves,

And, through our actions, be the Hands and Feet of Christ to them.

May we be insulated from fear as the earth is insulated by snow.

And, like spring bulbs, may we continue to grow and open inside, despite the cold,

Keeping the Hope of spring in our hearts, ready to stretch and grow towards justice.

Amen

members

This past Sunday Daniel and I became members of our church. We've been part of the community there for almost five years now, and participate in every other way. Why has it taken us so long? Maybe it's because neither of us grew up with a big emphasis on membership in our nondenominational churches. Or maybe it's because we've continually felt "on hold" in our life here in Denver. Or maybe it's because we've needed a hiatus from church and commitment, and the freedom to come and go as we please.

Whatever the reasons, in the end it felt special to become members. It's made me think again about community, and hearth gatherings, and my longing for authentic connection. 

It's also got me pondering why we go to church in the first place. Often, when I walk in there, I immediately want to turn around and walk back out. I was raised with enough evangelical iconoclasm, enough devotional and intellectual rigor, and later with enough rebellious Eastern University emphasis on social justice rather than pietism, to feel turned off by the denominational ties, the way some of the people talk about church like it's some kind of club. At some level, I don't get it. 

For all the church I've experienced--the good, the bad, and the ugly--I still feel like a Romantic poet inside. I have felt closest to God not in church, but in nature, in reading, and in connection with others. I thrill when poor John Keats whispers, "Truth is beauty, beauty truth." I sit under a velvet Utah sky so thick with stars you think it's snowing. My eardrums are buffeted by silence. Awe creeps in, and with it fear and trembling. I look into my husband's eyes, his body and mind part of me now after all these years. My child slips his doughy hand into mine, trusting me, loving me, no matter how I fail him. And in those moments, I feel God. Like Wordsworth, "I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes

The still sad music of humanity,

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power

To chasten and subdue.—And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still

A lover of the meadows and the woods

And mountains; and of all that we behold

From this green earth; of all the mighty world

Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,

And what perceive; well pleased to recognise

In nature and the language of the sense

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul

Of all my moral being.

But still we go to church. We hide from the sun and wind under a man-made sky. We wiggle on wooden pews, never quite comfortable. Why? There are so many things I value and love about our church. Pastor Dick's sermons, which are always gentle yet piercing, profound and life-giving. Pastor Char's faithful work with the children, the way she cradles silence during the prayers of the people, holding space for our grief and our joy. The classical guitar solos that make my toes tingle. The choir singing "deep peace of the running wave to you." The way our kids run to children's church. The community of believers, random as they are.

But there's a weirdness in it.

Maybe it's the guy in the choir who always sings a half-note off-key. Or the kids picking their noses while Pastor Char gives the Children's Lesson. The 70s-style hymn renditions that make me think I should be wearing bell bottoms. Or perhaps worse, the tired choruses that for me, pastor's daughter and former worship leader, were brand-spanking new circa 1985. (If I never hear "Kumbaya" again, I'd die happy. Could we just sing the classics? A little "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" or some Bach, done right? Or some of the more modern choruses?) Or perhaps it's me, judgmental me, looking at the people in their dress-up clothes and thinking, "Who are these people? What do I even have in common with these rich people, these dirty people, these weirdos?" The smell of burnt coffee, too much perfume, and old lady. This motley gathering of people all huddling around the common fire of a faith that we don't even understand most of the time.

I feel like Annie Dillard, in her strange and wonderful essay, "An Expedition to the Pole," when she asks, "Why do we people in churches seem like cheerful, brainless tourists on a packaged tour of the Absolute?" Dillard goes on to say:

On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside of the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return.

The bumbling circus of it all. The bumbling circus inside of me. And then, in the midst of the panhandling, a bright flash of gold. The sermon that touches "the mind in the heart," leaving nothing out. The chain of hands to shoulders as we gather in for a baptism affirmation. The clamor of voices that, even slightly off-key, lifts my soul to praise. The Lord's Prayer, which never gets old. And in the midst of the weirdness, God touches us. He meets us. He is with us. Emmanuel.

Babies don't keep

My firstborn baby is now 9, and this past week I've been looking through old pictures. Remembering, reminiscing. Even crying a little. As I look back, I'm flooded with gratitude for all the family and friends who gathered around us. You saw the panic in our eyes and told us we were doing great. You cooed over our baby, brought meals, cleaned our bathrooms. You made hot tea and scones and held the baby so we could sleep. When I was so tired I felt delirious, you told me this season wouldn't last forever. When I'd get worked up over the dirty house, the pudgy figure, the neglected everything-else, my Mom would hug me and say, "I know, honey." And then, gently, "Remember the poem?"

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

Of course, all the Moms and Dads who'd walked this path before us were right: babies don't keep.

I treasure every memory of holding my Jack in the dead of night, the only sound his breath at my breast as he nursed steadily in the dark. Every new thing he did: smiling, sitting up, crawling, talking, walking, and climbing every stick of furniture he could find. Every moment--glorious, messy, or rock-bottom--that taught me how to be his mother. He has been my teacher. He and Owen have taught me, moment by moment, mistake by mistake, how to be a mom. I don't regret a single thing I "gave up" to be present with my children. Not a fancier career, not a clean house, not travel or nicer stuff or more financial freedom or a stretch-mark-free belly or time to myself or anything else.

I see young parents around me now--the bags under their eyes, their puffed-up pride at their baby's newest trick or gassy smile--and I'm whisked back to that raw, precious time in our own life. Some of these parents I see are willing to slow their pace, put their ego aside, and rock their baby while the dust bunnies careen and their image of who they are takes a backseat. Some are resistant, pushing their children to grow up faster so they can chase the life they want. It isn't easy, being a parent. And it's even harder to do it with spiritual intention, with awareness and attunement. But the rewards are so deep, so plentiful and profound that words fail. I want to tell these frazzled, ecstatic parents what Mom told me, "I know, it's hard. And...babies don't keep."

With your encouragement, love, and support, you helped us cross the river to parenthood. Thank you to all of you--some pictured here, some not--for gathering around us and holding us in the net of your love. 

We are forever grateful.

Aunt Sandy

My dear Aunt Sandy died peacefully at home in the wee hours last night. It is a time of grief and mourning for our family. My heart is breaking for my Uncle Robin, and precious cousins, Aimee, Rebekah, and Bethany. I feel comforted by the firm knowledge that love lives on in those who remain behind, and that Sandy is no longer in pain. I know she is resting in the loving arms of God. 

Rest in peace, Aunt Sandy. I love you.

by Mary Oliver

split open

The succulents on top of the coop have been blooming fiercely. This pink one got so heavy the plant split open. I worried it might die, but it looks like all the stalks are stretching out and sprouting new roots.

This is pretty much how I feel right now.

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

~Anais Nin