not sleeping

My insomnia doesn't come these days during the first part of the evening. In fact, I've been drifting off to sleep while reading a book, my head snapping up as the book falls to the side. I fight this sleep, actually, wanting to stay awake and be lost in the pages of a fiction-world, a documentary-world, a memoir of someone's fascinatingly ordinary life. Last night I went to bed to read, lusting after that wee-hours reading that I've been known for since childhood. And, while I read a bit, it was nowhere near the bleary-eyed ending I'd imagined.

No, these days it's the morning portion that haunts me. It's not chronic or cyclical, this insomnia. I'm not even particularly concerned about it, except in that way that everything concerns me and I acknowledge the weight, the heaviness of the days. Instead, as happened this dark-morning-night, after returning the kidlet to his own bed, I realized that it was only a bit before 3, a completely decent hour to fall back to sleep. Except it wasn't.

So, I prayed. I meditated on my toes and my ankles and my knees. I flipped pillows and went to the bathroom. Finally, I put socks on my feet and ventured into the living room, eyes still heavy, body still aching to be asleep. Snuggled in beneath the ancient quilt and with the puggle snoring in the bend of my knees, I caught up on some things from the DV-R.

It's a tricky endeavor, this dwelling in the in-between of night and morning. The dog will sleep as long as we do, but once we're awake he likes to be fed and let out, to be let back in moments later. I understand. I rather like those things first thing in the morning, too. He returns to his spot quickly, though, content to have someone watch him sleep. But it's also a time when I don't want to wake the rest of the house, and I hope upon hope that I'll fall back to sleep, and so don't want to engage in a task -- like the dishes or the bills or the taxes.

Mostly this morning, honestly, I was thankful for the few hours of solitude, the quiet only broken by the sound of an occasional snow plow, the darkness illumined by the flashing orange lights. My time alone like this is rare, especially unencumbered of expectations of productivity. The day feels different when I'm the first one to stir, when I'm the one to break the seal of the sleep cocoon, and to see the first rays of sunshine glowing behind the blinds. 

Looking forward

I'm not especially good at things like "setting goals." In fact, I rather bristle at the idea of them. It's not that I don't like to get things done, because I do -- but more often than not, I feel that all I'm doing is setting myself up for failure. Perhaps I'm good at the goal, and not so good at the follow-through, the steps that support the goal.

Or maybe I need to be gentler with myself and more realistic in my goal-setting.

Ash Wednesday I thought, "I should blog again. Maybe that's what I'll do for Lent. I'll write every day. That would be good. It would re-establish the habit." And then Thursday came and went without a word being set down upon the blog. I also thought things like, "Maybe I should use Lent as a time to re-discover my passions about music ... cooking ... wine ... self-care..."

Or maybe I need to be a little less scattered with my goals... "Squirrel!"

There are resources that exist to help me with all of these things, including changing that inner monologue that "shoulds" all over the place... and instead gives me permission to accomplish things or even permission not to accomplish them. Because it's Friday and I'm writing, not because I should, or because it's my discipline, but because I want to, and simply because I am.

There are a lot of things I have to do, daily events that could just as easily be classified as chores, except I don't get an allowance for making my child breakfast or returning phone calls at the office (paycheck not withstanding). I also don't get a reward for the other things that help me to be whole -- meeting with my mentor, observing my sabbath, keeping my time holy, caring for myself -- and yet those are the pieces that often get lumped in with a litany of shoulds and a sense of failure because I don't.

I usually throw marketing materials and board reports into my recycling bin, simply because I don't really care. For some reason I opened one other other day and it was fascinating. It was more marketing that report, and every page had a goal under the headline, "Where we're going" followed by a paragraph or so of "How we're getting there."

So I've been thinking about that as I look forward. Where am I going? And how am I getting there?

Dirty Hands

It's Ash Wednesday. You know, that day when we get dirty on our foreheads and we pray the prayer of confession that acknowledges that we did all this by our fault, our own fault, our own most grievous fault. It's that line that gets me every year -- that causes me to pause in a way that most other parts of the liturgy don't. Maybe it's because I'm kneeling at that point, and all the words are in front of me so I don't have to be thinking ahead about worship and my role in leading it and whether or not I'm on the right page instead of leading the people astray down a confession or a proper preface that they're scrambling to find.

I made peace with the beautiful notion that each year I impose ashes upon people's foreheads who are quite close to returning to the dust, and also to those foreheads that are practically still wet from the waters I placed there during their baptisms. I'll get a little weepy still when I notice these beautiful people of God kneeling at the rail, and I bend over a bit to make that sign, that crumbly dusty sign of mortality upon their brows. But every year I make peace with it, usually over my morning cup of coffee, as I stand in the kitchen warming my hands around the mug, thinking about the day ahead of me. And so the tears that well up in my eyes are ones of deep love and care, not of trouble and distress.

Some years I preach and some years I preside. This is a presiding year -- a year when on Ash Wednesday I move from leading the confession to dipping my thumb into the small cup of ashes to standing behind the table to lift the bread and wine. We stop at the small table and swirl our hands in the soapy water there as a way station, a nod to cleanliness, and it strikes me that some year I'd like to put soap in the baptismal bowl and wash my hands there, for the whole congregation to see, instead of tucked in an alcove and using a dish towel.

But it never all comes off right away, those ashes mixed with a little bit of oil that we use. And so we move to the table lifting the bread with the remnants of ash worn into the grooves of my fingerprints and wedged beneath my nails. My hands are dirty on this day as I stand at the Lord's Table, and as I share the body of Christ with the faithful. The body of Christ, given for you.

Circling

One day last week I spent the afternoon without access to the internet (OK, it was all day, but I was out of the office in the morning), and I realized that I *can* do things without a messaging, and checking various news sites, and and and, though I don't really want to. It took me awhile to find my groove that afternoon and to return phone calls, write checks, stare blankly out the window and realize that's OK, every once in awhile. Though, please, powers-that-be, don't let it be too often.

In the midst of this I discovered the desire to cut things us and paste them on more paper. Some cal it collage. Some call it mixed media. I call it a mild and cheap form of therapy. But I don't keep many supplies in my office -- a circle template, some folders that I repurpose after they've held committee reports and council statements and education proposals from pastors gone by, and some official magazines that I'm getting better at letting go of. I pulled out the file and grabbed a couple of magazines and sat down -- fighting the urge to read, again, the articles, and instead grabbing images -- faces, poetry, words, fonts. Lifting style and vision from the pages with scissor, with tear, with another purpose not yet realized.

Why was I holding this particular issue, I wondered. Over two years old now, and with a cover author that I didn't know (and still don't), it had sat on my shelf, been transferred at least twice from container to container, and still I held onto it, the large ampersand on the cover curling about itself, standout yellow on gray. On the pages were dreams, I realized, some of my dreams from before, from long ago, from yesteryear, from back then. Not realized, those offers and programs called forth from the page, come here, go there, low-residency, top folks, study with the best.

I got part way through the magazine before I started to feel that twinge, that pull, that things that said, this is why you've saved me -- because within these pages there is something more than script on paper, there is something more than programs and offers, there is something other than today or yesterday or even tomorrow -- hope, vision, dream. With that in hand, I wrote this all down, then turned to face the paper again -- scissors and glue, circle and promise, together to create a new vision from old dreams.

Hello?

My husband recently got a fancy new phone, you know, a "smartphone" that allows him to check email and send things on a qwerty keypad. It's nice and when he's driving, I use it to check things online and to send an occasional update or email. Mine is a standard flip phone, and it works just fine. However, as I find myself being out of the office more and more, on the road or simply away to places without (free) business centers or even a computer, I dream of being able to check in without having to go home or to the office. It seems silly in some ways to me, but in other ways it's a good use of resources... some might even say in this line of work, that it's good stewardship.

This morning he handed me the fancyschmancy device and said, "read this." Under the banner headline of "Smartphones Now Ringing for Women," the New York Times reported on the trend of women increasingly wanting smartphones -- iphone, blacberry, etc. He hadn't read more than the opening sentences, but as I've lusted after his phone he thought I might find it of interest.

Interesting, yes. Slightly enraging? Yep.

With quotes such as, "Women have been using them for years in business, of course, but many are finding that the phones can also help manage their families’ hectic schedules and keep them in touch with friends" Ms. Holson proceeded to illustrate that women can use a phone (and it doesn't have to be pink! WHAT?! Shock of all shocks!) to keep every bit of their life in order. You know, on top of all of the things that they do in the office. And, better still, it's not seen as "geeky" anymore to be connected. Perhaps if she'd left out the phrase "of course" that particular quote wouldn't have perturbed me quite so much. As if women had just realized that they could use a planner to schedule everything else -- and not. just. work.

Because look -- women can operate technology, too!

(Just for the record: I have nothing against the pink phone. I would happily use one if given the opportunity.)

Weepy

I finished a book tonight, and toward the end, I got all weepy. OK, by the time I closed the cover, I was wiping hot tears from my cheeks. The book wasn't a literary masterpiece, by any means, but it was touching and sad.

As I was chiding myself for the tears over a silly book, I thought about the other times that I've cried recently -- a movie, a song on the radio. And then I remembered a pattern I've developed. I don't nap, even Sunday afternoons; instead I plow through the day and whatever exhaustion I'm feeling. When evening comes, after dinner and often with a glass of wine, I'll watch Ty's makeover home show. You know the one. We call it the weepy home show -- because I cry. Every. Week. It took me awhile to realize that this emotional release was helpful, necessary, whatever -- but that it is an emotional release.

So it was with the book, the movie, the song. In the many ways that I'm strong in many places, the emotions sneak up on me and I'm discreetly trying to wipe away the wetness on my cheeks before I reach my next destination, or turn the aisle in the store after looking at a particularly touching card.

When I sat down to write this, I thought, "I'm tired. It's been a long weekend." But that statement stretched into a question of week? couple off weeks? month? And so I found myself weeping tonight, tears that slid off the side of my face as I finished my book.

Honored Roads

It’s a long ways, she said. I know it’s a lot to ask. And when I sat down with her today, she handed me a map, copied from a standard atlas. Roads and highways that I’ve come to know, numbers and directions that are being written on my heart in ways that I never would have expected. Stapled to the back of that sheet, which would be available to anyone, was another map. Closer in detail, and seemingly hand-drawn, though that would surprise me, the map showed acreage and owners, creeks (or cricks) and stands of trees.

I would be honored to stand at the graveside, to pour dirt on the casket, to pray for commendation, and to be present as you say your farewells. I would be honored to walk with you, my heels sinking into the rich dirt of this corner set aside for a place of remembrance and holiness. I would be honored to sit and hear you tell stories, to hear your laughter and see your tears, to learn about this man whom you loved, whom you still, will always love, to discover anew what he was all about – service and people, reaching out to those whom he did not know, making a difference with all he knew.

This thing that we do, as pastors, is exhausting and untimely. It’s messy and yucky, and we try to move between bedside and baseball game and babies’ first cries seamlessly. Sometimes that works, and we’re able to slide here and there, filling our wells to drain them into someone else’s. I speak in metaphor and idea; I ponder and reflect and ask “good questions” and at the end of the day, the quiet of the night, with only the tip-tip-clack of nails on keyboard, I wonder if any of it matters. If any of it makes a difference. And I know, really, that it does. That this is belief and faith; that this life (mine, that of a pastor, yours) is all about moving from this thing to that one, about shifting from one to the other and being honored to simply be part.

I’m tired today, and that’s OK. These days have been full of the things that make up life – games and conversations, hands reached out over tables and across chairs in family waiting rooms, heads bowed in prayer and thrown back in laughter. The sun has shone down, making hair warm and brows sweaty, stirring seeds deep in the earth, calling, “Come out! Come out!”

In a couple of days I will drive a couple of hours, probably more with construction and traffic, and when I get there, it will be holy ground: green studded with marble and granite, surrounded by those open-country sounds of early summer, cows and tractors, big trucks and cars on dirt roads. These are not roads I have traveled before, but in the ways of heritage, they are already written in my heart. We will open the earth, speak words and read prayers, we will lift our hearts and commend, and it won’t be far at all.

Trying to find a word.

The place, the people, the time:
Amazing, sacred, full, intense, delightful, unexpected.
Stunning, gracious, good-natured, laughing.
Divine. Quotidian.

Words

You remind me of words

I said long ago

Words that I'd forgotten

and scenarios 

I had scrubbed clean away. 

You make me laugh

and somehow sad, 

not knowing what

this is all about. 

I scanned over some

pieces today

that represented 

more than the black and white

on the page, 

and that conjured up places

I'd allowed to gather dust. 

Tile by tile

Piece by piece

Creating a bit of 

wholeness. 

In response to a question

Where is the Spirit
Where is God when I...
am
preacherpoet motherdaughter
when I am the woman - the woman -
who cries at a yellow house
but does not. leave.it. behind
(and that is important)
when I am the woman
preacher poet who craves
recognition and a
sense of authority or a sense of feeling
of being known
but blogs anonymously, says
no, CRUMBLES when
challenged where is God
SPIRIT HOLY POWER GHOST
and what are my
yearning my challenges, my
gifts and how am I
true to them
I am pulled, pushed but
am I standing firmproudalive
with who I am, or am I shirking
the gifts that God has given
me? What do I yearn
for to do with a glass of
wine, a book and a pen.
what does this give me
the freedom
to do, from the trappings
of these walls we call
church together apart as
one in the world
what am I yearning and
dare I make plans
cast vision
claim mission
I am preacherpoet woman.

gift

She walked into the group, holding a brown paper shopping bag -- not from a grocery store, but the kind you get from a boutique, with rolled brown handles and nice tissue paper. I've stopped into the store before, gently fingering the lotions and soaps, inhaling deeply the organic, milled scent. It's not really my style, but I wonder if it could be if I had the money.

She approached me and said, I have something for you. Because of what you wrote the other day. It touched us, as things are these days.

And I thought about the pink ribbons and the cardiac tests, so unexpected, and the quiet faithfulness that exudes from them. She who birthed and raised a family on the other side of the world. She who tells fabulous stories with a twinkle. She who laughs and sighs. She who says with assured determination, everything's going to be OK. And I believe her because I need to as much for myself as for her. And if it's not? I brush that thought away like the tears on my cheeks.

When we were in Hong Kong, she began. And she wove a story for me about Psalm 121 and the outreach and the image that I had painted, of God coming down the hill after us. So I thought you should have this, she said, pulling a mug with a lid from the bag, and telling me its story. I thought you should have this, and know how much it meant the other day to read your words.

I hugged her, breathing in deeply all that she is. And then she wrapped the fragile mug back in the same tissue that had come with the bag, the paper still holding the scent of fancy soaps in its folds, and handed it to me.

posting, because it's tough to be a blogger without doing it

I'm tired of feeling like I can't catch up/keep up, and yet when I have time to do such things, I piddle it away.

Sometimes that piddling is in the form of self-care, so it's really not piddling, right? I hate it when I have to listen to my own sermons.

I burst into tears after seeing a piece of art in a most unexpected and unlikely place a couple of weeks ago. OK, burst is a strong verb, but "leaked into tears" doesn't have the same cliche-ness, even if it is more accurate and perhaps more poetic. I walked away from the print of a yellow house, but then went back, which is progress in and of itself. I've long tried to hold onto the idea that (when at all possible), it's best just to purchase that which moves me deep in my soul. The print is sitting in this room, and I find that I'm growing from it.

A dear woman gave me a gift this past week. I need to write the story behind the piece of pottery and why she gave it to me before I forget.

I woke up at about 4:00 this morning, and drifted between rest and restless for the next two hours, pondering the what-ifs, the what-nexts and the so-whats. Again, there's a reason that we write the sermons that we do -- we often need to hear them the most.

There is a break in the days to come, and for that I'm thankful. And giddy.

There are words and bits floating in my head. I thought about doing nanowrimo this fall, but not seriously. Of course I still have a couple of days to make some sort of commitment if only in my mind, right?

I raked leaves this afternoon, after confirming students and being relative-polite at parties. I love to rake leaves. And yet I wondered why my hands were tender as they cupped the cold wine glass -- really wondered, until I remembered. I'm sure there's a poem or a story in there somewhere about laying hands on crinkly-haired teen-age boys, glossy-haired teen-age girls, the leaves underfoot and my citified hands that gathered leaves and invoked that pesky holy spirit. but you'll note my awakening time this morning, and my lack of a nap (not that I'm a napper, but it's a good excuse) and realize that I simply don't have the creative bubbles within my syntax tonight.

Fighting the Funk

Because these days coffee doesn't seem to be cutting it, I bring myself a list of things that should fight my funk.

Having lunch with a friend from long ago and far away, because it's right now and she's not so far away. Being able to rearrange my schedule to do that with relative ease.

Discovering a new outlet right next door to another outlet that I really, really like. If only ATL would move in next door to both of them.

Having the sense to leave a conference part way through it because it didn't fit my needs and the presenter was sucking the life out of me. No, I'm not being dramatic.

Trying to prioritize the reasons that I do what I do. Hearing our treasurer articulate that the congregation didn't call me to deal wtih advertising marketers, and that he'd be happy to call the ah-hem representative back.

Getting over some guilt.

Giving myself peptalks, and perhaps some actual therapy.

Recognizing the funk, even if I don't know what to do about it.

Preaching Poetry

There isn't much
that makes me think that writing
in free form
short
sentences
deep indents
staggered
lines
of
thought
will actually make my sermons any better.
Because when it comes right
down
to
it
I'm not slamming
(not that I was ever good at that when I tried)
in the pulpit
any more than I was when
I fancied
myself a poet far
far
from any
pulpit.

Last week
I sketched
my sermon
in some sort
of weirdfreeform
that I hoped would
break it (you know, the Word)
free
if only for me.

And I smiled when I thought about standing
before these nice, church folks,
spitting out words
in a rhythm
of stops
and starts
starts and
stops, then walking away to sing
the hymn of the day.

Then I swiveled
my chair to face the computer
and I typed long sentences
that flowed together and broke only when the margin butted in and made them jump to the next line as if scared that God's grace really couldn't flow like the Gospel promised.

So that's where I get it...

I've loved to make collages since I was in about 7th grade and it was the only project in art class where I truly felt that I deserved/earned the grade I got. There was something about the composition of words with images and the contrast of light and dark, the combining of fanciful with real and then putting it all together. We made copies on an old copy machine and then colored some of them in. I think the original collages were 11X17, or at least bigger than 8.5X11, so we were able to make a copy that only showed part of our image, and I saw that, too, as an opportunity to crop something out that I didn't particularly like, or make a decision about only showing half of the picture of my family. Not sure what to do with these copies, I wrote letters to friends on the other side, and I'd be surprised if any of them remain.

But through that assignment, the practice of making something new out of pieces of something else was kindled for me. Like quilting, but not as useful.

Grandma died (I've written about this before) and we made the trek to the farmhouse when the ground was still cold and the rhubarb was just beginning to emerge, bulbous and deep red, from the rich black dirt-turned-grey. We kicked through leaves and hid our tears and stood gazing off into the distance over acres and acres of soil, of dirt, of land that has been in our family since they staked the claim and said, "Here." And then we turned the key and budged open the door with our shoulder, with our hip, stumbling a bit into the entryway with its cracked linoleum and little sink -- where for generations people "washed up" before sitting down at the table.

We poked around and pulled books off the shelves and sometimes someone would sigh loudly and a hand would reach out to the shoulder, rub-rub-pat. And I opened the door to the basement, the damp smell of earth greeting me, sharp and a little offensive. I pulled the chain for the light bare light bulb and inhaled that earthy smell quickly. In the years that it had been since I'd ever opened that door, and for the first time probably ever, I noticed that all of the walls and the ceiling in the space heading downstairs were covered with pages from magazines.

I pulled my mom over and simply pointed, my eyes asking questions and my body finding comfort in this collaged room. "Oh yeah, I remember when she did that," Mom said. "Your Great Aunt came out one weekend and they spent the whole time tearing pages out and pasting them on the walls, and the ceiling." She paused and looked around, shaking her head. "Making do with what they had," she said. "Pretty amazing, isn't it?" And then she closed the door.

I went back to that land of history last week, to do the final sort through what hadn't been burned onsite last summer. There were a lot of memories wrapped up in newspaper -- fragile plates that had hung on the walls, a lamp, a dish and jar that used to water chickens and now resides with me in the suburbs. "For when we start raising chickens," I told my husband when he raised his eyebrows at me.

And there were five boxes full of old magazines, mostly from the 1930s -- Woman's World, Life, Hampshire Herdsman, Successful Farmer -- all addressed to my grandfather, who has been dead for almost 50 years. I took a few of them -- interesting ads, things I could frame, stories of communism.

My mother has saved stacks of magazines. I have saved stacks of magazines. Covering the walls with the magazines was my grandmother's and her sister's way of doing something with what they had already read, piecing together bits of history to bring color and protection to the walls.

Safe Passage

He sits in a lawn chair when the weather gets warm, bright vest on, stop sign twirling at his feet. He stands and greets the kids who come near him, nodding and questioning. And then he walks slowly into the intersection, his hand out behind him until the way is safe when he beckons to the children on scooters, foot, the occasional bicycle. Sometimes a parent waits for that crossing with the family dog, waving and calling, "Have a good day," before returning home or continuing the walk.

He nodded his thanks to me one day, as I stopped farther than most and waited what he must have perceived to be patiently. Some days I might wave, an anonymous passer-by thankful for his role in the life of the community.

On cold days, much of our winter, he waits for the rush in his small blue car that has seen better days, a cup of coffee steaming the windshield, and I imagine talk radio filling the air. His smile is the same, but there's less dawdling, more hurrying, and the parents wave quickly, bundled more tightly.

School's nearly out for the summer. Late the other day, a group of children stood on the sidewalk, calling to him with pen and yearbook, waiting for the beckoning hand to leave an impression in their book.

Moment

I noticed the curve of the sidewalk and thought it seemed like a cheerful curve, a happy curve, and at the same time rebuffed myself for anthropomorphing (is that the right word? used correctly?) the sidewalk. I noticed the curve of the sidewalk as I stepped off of it to let the man walk past me, step-step shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. His jacket -- thin, dark blue, indicated his allegiance to an organization -- hung from his shoulders and swayed a bit as he step-step shuffled his way toward the building.
The grass where I stepped to make more room was soft, cushiony, and my thoughts jumped to sod and grass seed and rain gauges and errands I was running and the pending rain that was starting to fall, lightly and without conviction. The rain, like the sidewalk, not especially in need of the human attributes I was assigning, but they were working for me.
I stepped back onto the sidewalk, the man having passed, and I paused in my mind to be thrilled at sharing the building behind me with old men, immigrant families, students. My canvas bag bounced against my hip, my self-pride at having remembered it tempered only by its necessity to leave the house.
My car was warm when I threw the bag on the side seat, knocking my lunch out of its wrapper, the remains of the energy bar (my second of the day, a sad substitute for a rain check lunch) crumbling as I picked it up. The heat had softened it, warmed the cherries, made it vaguely reminiscent of pie -- if I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

Holy Week, What else?

Things that I'm doing this week:
* Being grateful for health and home
* Feeling oddly out-of-sorts and out of rhythm
* Experiencing my own leadership as if for the first time
* Blowing the last remnants of a cold out of my head
* Rejoicing over a shared meal and laughter with a high school friend
* Pondering the contents of my child's basket, and knowing it doesn't really matter
* Reading late at night
* Wanting to go on vacation
* Laughing with my son
* Teaching new words: alpaca, pygme goat, lamb
* Anticipating the return of snowbirds
* Holding people in prayer
* Aching to dig in the dirt

The Days

The last six days or so have been a blur of worship, wedding, funeral, nursing home, hopsital visit, doctor's appointment. They've been a blur of dancing, wine party, martini, pizza and champagne, digging in the dirt, raking the compost. The days have flowed together like the fog that enveloped the car and the dreams that took over my sleep -- sometimes comforting, yet somehow dangerous. I've sat on the floor on the edge of tears or something else and said with more restraint than I knew I had, we have to do something, get out of the house, do something. The days have been walks and library trips and book sales and passing in the night, the afternoon, the morning. They have been loud sounds like an elephant, a lion, a monkey, that sometimes get confused and produce giggles and stomping feet because we have no words for the giddiness we feel and the laughter doesn't seem enough.

Satisfaction

After a day of piddly tasks and general busyness which I started to write about and bored even myself, though I'm vaguely proud of all that I've done, including checking my email multiple times, including the three web-based accounts that I maintain and my blog, my sitemeter, my bloglines, and conquering the horrendous mail pile that was threatening to take over my desk.
But the most satisfying of all?
Cleaning the kitchen counter tonight, and bleaching the sink.