malaria nights

Once I read that having Malaria as a child leaves one plagued later in life by recurring dreams. Do my repeated bouts of the feverish illness explain my later childhood years of frightful nightmares? Perhaps. I am more inclined to suspect that my own dark and brooding dreams were due more so to a childhood marred by pain and to a nature prone to dwelling on the same.
Like the night I spent imagining my father’s gasping last breaths, other solitary mental images and nightmares of my young mind claim a strangely predominant position in my memories of childhood.
In the years following my father’s death, I spent nights fearing the image that would no doubt appear, unbidden, once my waking guard was weakened by the stealthy grip of sleep.
The dreams would always begin innocuously, with the exciting certainty that I was to be with Daddy again, that perhaps he was not really dead. Or that, even if he really was, I would at least get to spend the span of the dream with him again. But each time, once my dreaming awareness progressed beyond the initial excitement, my heart thudded with the sickening realization that this was not my Daddy. And sometimes with the even more sickening one that it was him.
Each night, you see, he was altered somehow, deformed beyond recognition. I only wished that I were not so certain that it was still him. There was some deep knowledge that it was him, but nothing remained of the Daddy I loved.
In one dream he appeared in the form of a tiny dwarf, with exaggerated features and the head of a grown man but features and mannerisms of a child. That night he approached me cheerfully, awkwardly but speedily coming to greet me. And I ran, horrified more by the prospect of encountering him than I had ever been cheered at the idea of a reunion.
Another night he was not changed so much physically as he was estranged emotionally. He was an adult, and I knew it was him even though I couldn’t place his features into any recognizable form. I was terrified that I had forgotten what he looked like, as I often was in my waking hours, when I would seek out photos to memorize, in case I was losing my own mental images of his face, of his form. At any rate, in this dream he simply passed by me, engaged by his companions, ignoring me. He even looked at me directly, as if he knew who I was, but did not care in the slightest.
There were more, along the same vein of a recognizably him but strangely altered Daddy. I grew accustomed to my vivid dream life—so accustomed that it never occurred to me that it was anything worth coming out of my own head. Now I wonder how common that is, for children. And I remain fascinated by, and still slightly frightened by, the lapsing into the untamed, unpredictable territories of the sleeping mind . . .

my bald spot

My bald spot itches. And yes, I am 25 years old. And no, I am not undergoing chemotherapy. I did, however, have a biopsy not too long ago; it was purely perfunctory, though, not dramatic in the least. My doctor, after running blood work and finding nothing wrong, referred me to a dermatologist, who declared, with a rapid wave of his hand, that it was simply Alopecia Areata. “So,” I queried, “why exactly did my hair fall out?” He waved his arm in the air again and pronounced, “Who knows? Some people just react that way—it’s more common than you would think.”
And there you have it. I am just one of those people who, when under the proper combination of stresses, reacts by losing a chunk [or a whole head, for that matter] of hair. I suppose an indication of the stressed out state of mind I was in at the time (several months ago) is the reaction I had when discovering, while pulling back my hair in the morning, this large patch of smooth-as-a-baby’s-bottom baldness:
I felt it; pulled my hand back in confusion; felt it again; held up a mirror behind my head to confirm my suspicion . . . then I laughed. Oh my—I’m going bald! How oddly amusing! Mind you, I was sensible enough to be concerned. So I did my research, talked to knowledgeable friends, called the telephone nurse, and made an appointment with my doctor. What I discovered is that it was in fact probably stress. But I did not know if it would stop with one patch of hair for me, or continue. So my thought process went something like this:
Well, I have one bald spot. I may be losing all my hair. And even if it is treatable, then chances are, by the time the treatment kicks in, I will have probably lost at least another chunk, considering how quickly this one appeared. And what does one do with a couple of bald spots? Why shave the rest of it off of course!
And I proceeded to contentedly plan my baldness. What I realized in the process is that I was actually rather tired of having so much hair to fool with, so that the prospect of not having it anymore was surprisingly pleasant. What I concluded in my planning process was that I would certainly not wear a wig. An image came to mind of colorful cloth scarves wrapped artistically around the scalp. So I resolved to learn how that was done, and to buy various shades and patterns of cloth, and simply alternate head wraps for the duration of my baldness.
When I told my Mother what was happening, she laughed and said that it figured that I would be the one to lose my hair: see, I was always teased for having more hair than I knew what to do with. My relatives wondered where I had gotten all of it, since no other women, on either side of the family, had much to speak of. All I knew was that it could be a hassle having such a heavy head of hair.
At any rate, Mom said that if I did keep losing it, I should at least save it as it fell out and share it with the rest of them. I opted instead to ship it down to Locks of Love. Before doing so, however—and before warning anyone that I had just chopped it off, I took a segment out of the large ponytail I held oddly detachedly in front of me. I put this segment, unmarked, in a regular letter envelope and mailed it to Mom.
But, back to today’s appointment: what my dermatologist generally does [why I think of him as mine, I cannot tell you—I actually have never had a dermatologist before . . .then again, perhaps that’s why I claimed him so . . .]. Well, like I was saying, after a standard biopsy, he likes to do a series of scalp super-hair-growth-serum injections. Ok, so maybe that’s not the technical term for it, but as I cannot recall him ever telling me what it was, that is the term I settled upon in my head.
Today was the 2nd appointment in my series [and necessarily the last, as it is the last month in which I will be insured]. So, upon pronouncing my hair to be growing back nicely—he was, I am pleased to report, “proud” of my hair growth, he then shook my hand, told me it had been a pleasure doing business with me, and jetted out the door in his jauntily comical manner.
It all ended up being a bit of a false alarm, in the sense that my Alopecia Areata stopped with only one patch. But I learned a good lesson about monitoring my life balance more closely, being mindful of not letting school and work billow out of control, and keeping social outlets and positive stress-relieving activities in my life . . . and I do love having short hair!

this feeble faith

*this evening i distract myself by job applications interspersed with scrubbing the carpet* [we are having another episode of too-good-for-the-litter-box-ness]. consequently, class was a bit difficult to stay focused on tonight. i am, i must admit, anxious. it is official that i am unemployed, and the official-ness unfortunately coincided with the discovery that my scholarship for next year is substantially smaller than i thought. and i am feeling my humanity. oh ye of little faith . . . i try to trust, and believe that He who made me this way [whether or not i like it] is somehow in charge of even my mistakes, my silly human errors. but i worry . . .

mom + pond =

As far as standards of motherhood go, I believe I can safely say that my own mother plants her feet firmly outside the boundaries of the expected. Case in point:
Like the good, conventional daughter that I am, I called her this evening to report on the scholarship awards ceremony we were returning from—thinking I was fostering her need to be proud and parental. Like the unconventional mother that she is, she replied with her own rivaling tale of the day.
Overhearing from the front seat, when I said goodbye my grandparents promptly inquired as to what mom had gotten herself into this time. And I duly relayed the story . .
My mother, it seems, invented her own [unconventional] method for breaking in her new shoes this afternoon. She had accompanied my stepfather on a day trip to Keene so as to get some “big city” errands accomplished that their rural town does not allow for. One of these, earlier in the day, involved the investment of a new pair of shoes. Shoes are understandably important for Mom, and so she had decided to try a pair of Merrells this time. And they were on sale, so she [of course] had to buy them.
New shoes afoot, and several errands completed, later in the day she found a nice park, with a pleasant-looking pond, and decided to go for a short walk. Nearing the pond, one crutch found a wet patch of pine needles, her foot accordingly found a slippery slope of grass, and down she went. Into the pond. She emerged momentarily, laughing, and quite wet. Keep in mind that my stepfather was nowhere nearby at the time, and that the park itself was unoccupied, except for Mom. She now found herself in the predicament of being a slightly less-than-normally mobile person, alone, and in a pond. After surveying her surroundings, she noticed some stumps on the other end of the good-size pond that looked promising as far as providing the support needed to lift herself and her crutches back onto dry land. So she, as she relayed it to me, “rolled” to the other side. “Rolled??” I questioned, a bizarre image in my mind. She then clarified that she had probably slided more than rolled. But I dare say, I quite prefer to keep the verb “roll” for my own personal amusement. At any rate, her plan worked, and she got herself out of the pond. Then, being my [unconventional] mother, her next logical step was to go back to the store where she had purchased her fine new shoes and, in all her dripping finery, announce to them how pleased she was with her new shoes, now that she had “broken them in.”
And that, my friends, is my mother.

in the waiting

So now I feel like a fickle and slightly silly female, but in an oddly almost-at-peace sort of way. It seems that it took “moving on” to make me realize how much I really did love my job. I made too much of the creativity that has been blooming for this whole year and, once my job was steady and under control, felt like I needed to face a new challenge, to learn something new. When all this time it was the routine, the comfortable parts of my job that were really allowing my creativity to bloom on the side; if it were not for the steady, “easy” tasks, I would not have creative juices inadvertently bursting out while on my morning commute, while wandering down the grocery aisle, while shaving my legs, etc, etc. . .
In a week of impulsive [and hormonal??] decision making, I decided to burst out from the routine. And in doing so I realized just how much I was giving up. Now I may very well have lost my job. And if so I will grieve. But, I have also called my boss and requested that, if my job is not accepted by another, I can have a second chance with it, can have my dear job back again.
No, I do not want to leave. This is why I have spent several days now crying every time I talk about leaving, why I bawled into the phone, paced around campus rapidly depleting the roll of toilet paper I was carrying with me for lack of a box of tissues, why the only other remotely interesting prospect was another job on campus . . . But I have grown attached to my work—it has been my “child” for 2 years, and I will mourn for it if I leave it now. And if I do lose my job over this, it will have been a blessed lesson learned: a lesson in what it feels like to really grow to love the role that I am here to fill, work-wise; because the truth is that the love I feel for it now is a great enough gift to carry with me even if the job is lost. So I wait . . .

revelation of vulnerability

After 2 days of on-edge "what am I doing?" sadness-tinged anxiety, I had a blessed realization today. I burst into tears when talking to my Mother about the prospect of leaving, and am now wonderfully certain, if frighteningly vulnerable as a result, about what it is I really long for now. After 2 years in a workplace I accidentally stumbled into, I seem to have grown bound to it in spite of myself. Announcing my pending departure, and now training and preparing to leave my position has left me moping about and nervous at the same time. And so it was with a grateful shock this afternoon that it hit that I do not really want to leave. All I long for is a life-manageable position at this college I have grown to love so much, and with the students who have grown so dear to me. The overwhelming responsibilities of my growing department has just blinded me to what it is I do love about the place--the stark beauty of the rising sun as I drive up in the morning, the sweet communion of worship in chapel services, the energetic and purposeful passion of students just beginning adulthood and seeing the welcoming wideness life has to offer, the professors who give of themselves tirelessly, offering time, care, and tender concern for their students, the staff members who smilingly greet interruptions in the midst of a seemingly endless to-do list . . .
No, I do not want to leave. I will leave if I must, because I do not know if my sanity will permit me to continue juggling full-time work and studies. And practically, I cannot afford to skimp on studies, as I am now on scholarship thanks to my studious intensity thus far. But oh, if I could stay, could somehow manage it, I would be overcome with joy, with gratitude . . .

scent of a memory

The power of association upon a scent never fails to surprise me. When fully considered, it is understandable that all of our senses—smell included—would be powerful forces. Even as an inner-focused person, I certainly recognize how integral my physical body is to the rest of my intellectual, reflective, and spiritual self. But still, I am surprised when something so simple as a scent can affect me to profoundly.
This afternoon it came as I walked into Cadek to answer phones for wutc’s pledge drive. I have not been in that building but once or twice since moving back into town, as my normal work, school, and Church schedule never seems to take me there. Except for once, to pick up a prize that left me even more of a loyal listener to the station [that story I will happily tell, if prompted to by anyone] . . .
At any rate, I walked into the building and was instantly bowled over by my reaction to the smell—it is an old building smell, but seems somehow distinctive to that particular building; I, at least, have never encountered one quite like it. So one whiff of the inside air brought with it a flood of vivid, bittersweet memories . . .
I was 10 years old again, trembling as I walked onto the stage to give my first recital . . .
I was sitting in my practice room one night, bursting into tears when my teacher hinted that perhaps I should try to practice more that I had for this week’s lesson. She said it not unkindly, but I was guilt-ridden already about how little I knew I had practiced that week . . .
I was standing outside listening to my sister play, and wishing I could play Suzuki also [she learned Suzuki method, while I learned traditional]. I never did feel like I did as well with sight-reading as I did learning by ear. So I pretended to sight-read, while in fact relying upon my ears to clue me into the correct notes . . .
What this afternoon’s reaction left me with is just another reminder to stay attuned to what I am experiencing, in its entirety, in any given moment of life. I don’t know about you, but I, for one, would feel a great void without those moments of transcendence that come from living reflectively: the tear-rending emotional reactions, the bittersweet pleasures, the vivid memories, and even the acutely painful ones.

a poet discovered

Thanks to a listserv I belong to for writers and lovers of Children's Lit, I was recently introduced to a new favorite poet [one of my favorites, rather]. As I read a review of his newest volume, it left me gratefully weeping over my keyboard, at work, in plain view, for any passers-by to see . . .
So, I wanted to post an excerpt here, to share the joys of Michael Rosen's gifted words. And, I suspect, if you read to the end of this post, you just might sypmathize, if not share, my tears:

"Eddie and the Birthday
(Eddie is my second son)
When Eddie had his second birthday
he got lots of cards,
and he had a cake and all kinds of presents
and we sang Happy Birthday,
'Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, dear Eddie...'
and all that.
He liked that very much
So he goes:
'More. Sing it again.'
So we sang it again.
'Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, dear Eddie...'
and all that.
And he goes,
'More. Sing it again.'
So we sang it again.
'Happy Birthday to you
da de da de da, dear Eddie
da de da to you...
'And he goes,
'More. Sing it again.'
It felt like we sang Happy Birthday about
Two hundred and twenty-three times.

And the candles. On the cake.
He loved them.
'Eddie, blow.'
He blew.
And the moment he blew it out
he wanted more.
'More candle.'
So we light it.
'More Eddie blow.'
Eddie blew.
'More candle.'
We light.
'More Eddie blow.'
'More candle.'
That felt like two hundred and twenty-three times as well.

And he loved the cards.
Everyone who sent him a card
seemed to think he'd like one
with pictures of big fat animals.

Elephants and hippos.
He got about ten of them.
Imagine.
Your second birthday
and everyone sends you pictures of
hippopotamuses.
Maybe they think he is a hippo.

Anyway he had a nice birthday.
Next day he gets up
comes downstairs
and he looks around
and he goes,
'More happy birfdy.'
So I go,
'That was yesterday, Eddie.'
'More happy birfdy.'
'But it isn't your birfdy--I mean birthday...'
'More happy birfdy.'

Now you don't cross Eddie.
He throws tantrums.
We call them wobblies.
'Look out, he's going to throw a wobbly!'
And the face starts going red,
the arms start going up and down,
the screaming starts winding up
he starts jumping up and down
and there he is--
throwing a wobbly.

So I thought,
'We don't want to have a wobbly over this one.'
So we started singing Happy Birthday all over again.
Two hundred and twenty-three times.
Then he says
'More candles.'
'We haven't got any,' we say
(Lies, of course, we had).
'More candles...'
So out came the candles
and yes--
'Eddie blow.'
He blew.
'More candle.'
And off we go again--
Two hundred and twenty-three times.

And then he says,
'Letters. More.'
Well, of course no one sent him any more,
so while I'm singing more happy birfdys,
my wife was stuffing all the cards
into envelopes and sticking them down.
So we hand over all his cards again
and out came all the hippopotamuses again.

So he's very pleased.
And that's how Eddie had two birthdays.
Lucky for us
he'd forgotten by the third day.

Maybe he thinks when you're two you have two birthdays
and when you're three you have three birthdays
and when you're seventy-eight you..."

and later, here is an excerpt from The Sad Book (2005):

"What makes Michael Rosen sad is thinking about his son, Eddie, who died suddenly at the age of eighteen."
"Sometimes I want to talk about all this to someone. Like my mum. But she's not here anymore, either. So I can't."which makes me really, really sad, because my mom was the person I always had to talk to about things and now it's been five long years since she's not been here for me to talk with.

encountering kaye

This afternoon I had the good fortune of rescuing Kaye Gibbons from a persnickety water cooler. She blew in, flustered and a bit flighty, to the Southern Writers’ Conference, as I was working the registration desk, and came over to ask for help. I was wearing my official Volunteer Badge, so I guess looked like a good person to ask for help—her problem was that her watch battery had died, and she was worried about keeping to time while she was speaking, so was looking for a watch to borrow. Unfortunately I did not have one to offer, since I don’t wear a watch, but another person there did, so we were able to help her there. She thanked us, then went over to get a cup of water from the sports cooler set up by the wall. Weighted down by bags and papers, and walking in a slightly strained manner in her heels, she fumbled with the cooler and ended up knocking the lid off the top of it. I hesitated before going over there, considering whether my help would be embarrassing to her, but decided to just offer at least. As it turns out, she was grateful for assistance, asking me to help her with the dispenser, and apologizing as I filled her cup. She explained that she was terribly nervous, and sniffly with a sinus infection. Well, who wouldn’t be? I thought. Later, I got to hear her speak a bit and she apparently collected herself mightily well, as she gave a witty address. What I think I appreciated the most, though, was that she was transparent—she had to stop talking for a moment, when she got choked up at the description of a fellow writer who had urged her to be herself, to speak her words . . .
Well, I must say, this was a better brush with fame, as far as I’m concerned, than any Backstreet Boy run-in, or something along those lines [am I dating myself already, at the age of 25??].

a waking moment

It was another session of summer camp—this time at Church camp. The session was marked by feelings of separateness, though I must say that is not particularly unusual for my childhood memories. I generally, at least after moving to the U.S., felt different from my peers, and uncomfortable in social settings with them. Now I would like to say that I did not care, that I was somehow self-assured enough to not be concerned with such trivial things as “popularity.”
But of course, for a child, there is nothing that matters so much as that. And so I did care—I cared desperately. So much so that there were days when I burst into tears on the way home from school, at the simple question from Mom about how my day was. Looking back, I suspect that I forced much of my insecurity upon myself, overanalyzing situations in such a way as to imagine classmates looking down upon me. They more likely simply did not give me much thought—the silent girl joining class in the middle of the year, whose mothers whispered about the “poor family, poor children . . .”
And so, this summer, I was at Church camp surrounded by good children who came from respectable families and wore nice clothes and memorized their verses for Sunday School each week . . . And I felt different. And I cared.
One night I fell asleep in a troubled, fitful manner, half-listening to the loud, uneven air bursts of the cabin fan. Normally I liked sleeping to the sound of a fan—to the pleasant even flow that kept out the silence of night. But this one bothered me. It troubled me, in fact. And, waking in the wee morning hours, I realized just how much. I was wide awake and frantic. Crying. And then sobbing. The whirring fan was no longer just that. It had become the death-sounds of my father. Intensely real to me at that moment was the imagined reality that Daddy had died gasping for breath, in loud, haltingly uneven breaths. The fan motor grew increasingly louder to my ears, and I was seeing Daddy sitting there in the car, gasping, with no one able to help.
Finally, I woke up my counselor with my sobs. She came to my bedside and talked me out of my panic, taking me outside into the cool summer night as soon as she had managed to make some sense out of my wailing “Daddy! . . . no! . . .can’t breathe . . . the noise . . .”
The next morning things were normal again. Life was normal, inasmuch as it ever is. But I knew I had had one of my moments, one of the snippets of time that would stay locked in my memory, hidden away. Until it had to come out in words. And why did it? Why does anything have to be put to words, written out?
In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was with God. And the Word was God . . .
There is of course a power in the speaking of something. A making real. A healing. A moving on. And so we speak the words, and write the stories, and sing the songs.
And live.

the men's room 

hidden & heavenly

Before heading out for work this morning I was, as is my custom, vacuuming up the stray litter from the “men’s room” [see illustration above] of my apartment. I lifted up the entrance mat to get at the area beneath it, and then paused, perplexed. After staring for a moment at the oddly-shaped little mass that I found hidden there in the dimly lit hallway, I peered more closely. And what I discovered made me laugh.
Yesterday evening I thought I was losing my mind. After several months of being rather smitten with this new herbal tea—lavender chamomile—that Mom first gave me for Christmas, I have been replenishing my own supply so that I can enjoy a nightly cup of it.
This would be fine, except for my recent nagging conscience about the fact that I am spending a pretty penny on this fancy tea. I mean, each one of these little tea bags is a work of art, I dare say. Seriously, even the shape is artistic—a little diamond instead of your average little tea-bag-square. And instead of the normal papery filter, these bags are surrounded by a sheer, finely-woven, shimmery mesh. Well, it was love at first sight—and I hadn’t even tasted the delicate chamomile with its lavender aroma when I first held up that tea bag to gaze at it . . .
So you get the point. At any rate, it’s a pricey little purchase, considering I drink it basically nightly. Well the other day, I decided I should just start reusing the bags—just once—as the tea brews quite strongly. This way I could still enjoy the tea but get double the value. So I just steeped it for slightly less time then removed the bag and placed it on a plate on the counter—to use the next night.
But last night I came home to an empty place. There was the place I had—so I thought—laid the tea bag. But it was most definitely not there. My final conclusion was that I had only imagined myself placing the bag on the plate, while in actuality I had thrown it away out of habit.
But no, I had placed the tea bag where I thought I had. It simply had never occurred to me that Aslan could get onto the countertop. He can. And he did. And he decided that my little saved tea bag was the perfect toy for the day. Now whether he purposefully hid it under the mat to save—hidden—until I was gone again, I suppose I shall never know. Then again, do all cats go to heaven? Hmmm . . .

mindfulness of grief

After class ended this evening, I was reading one of my child lit books when I was distracted by a thought--or, rather, by an image. It got me thinking about grief--specifically, the grief of a child. I am not sure the thoughts are coherent, but perhaps putting words to them will make them more so, so I will try.
The image is a memory. One of the few times as a child that I was able to cry--to really cry, in the gut-level, wrenching manner that I needed to. Most often, as they do, these tears were prompted by one of 3 things: words, music, or beauty. Or, even more often, by a combination of 2 or more of these.
At any rate, the memory comes from one of the summers I spent at camp--this time at Camp Ocoee, where I later returned for several summers as a camp counselor. I went to a few church cams as well, but Ocoee was by far my favorite, with all its opportunities for kayaking, canoe trips, climbing, pet tarantulas . . . but that's another story :-)
What I was going to say ['when truth broke in with all her matter of fact about the ice storm'] is that this particular summer, as a camper of 10 or 11 years old, I had spent the 2 week session particularly gravitating towards one of the counselors. I was never bold enough to outwardly display it, but I just found a way to be near him, somehow, at open-camp events and downtimes. It wasn't exactly a conscious response . . . just a twinge of bittersweet longing his presence brought out in me--that sort of sadness that hints at something greater than our own somewhat stifling selves.
Towards the end of the session, during evening free time, a group of us were sitting around outside with our snacks, and this counselor got out his guitar. I do not remember what he was playing, or even what his voice sounded like. All I remember is watching his face, listening to his voice, and then suddenly, in spite of myself, losing all of my normal calm control. I was a shaking, wailing mess of a little girl. And, even at the time, I was immensely relieved at the ability to let out that pain that had been pressing against my heart all that time.
You see, something about this young man's voice, face, manner, or combination thereof, brought back to me some remnant of my father. And so, I do not know how much he actually looked like, or sounded like Daddy, but regardless, I needed that heart-nudge in order to begin to start what would be, for my heart, at least, a long and drawn-out process of grieving.
At the time, I ended up crying so desperately that my worried counselor ushered me away to the nurse's cabin, so I could continue my crying for some time yet, in peace and under the kind care of the nurse. But I really did not mind. I remember trying, in between sobs, to assure them that I was ok, really . . . that it was ok . . . that, in fact, I was more ok than I had been for some time. Because I was. That was a sort of a pattern that continued for quite a few years--long periods of stoic quiet seriousness followed by moments of letting-it-all-out.
And eventually, adulthood crept up on me. And somewhere between then and now I began to stop needing to grieve for my father, and began to live and to grieve for situations in my own life, or in the lives of people in my life. But I do believe that we each play a role in the lives of children around us.
Who knows but that we may, at any moment, be an impetus for some child's growth into the adulthood they need to reach. Or that we may provide some child with an outlet for the grief she needs so desperately to get out. Or the comfort she needs while grieving . . . What I do know is that we cannot, must not, underestimate the depth of children's emotions and experiences, as adults are so often prone to do, in our impatient busybodyness, bustling about through life. Oh, I do forget this so very often . . . and do resolve to be more mindful, more careful, more caring, in the future . . .

not in part but the whole

Thank you, Jesus, she said, for showing me your face in the face of this man . . . And thank you, for giving him to me. And she washed his feet. Gently. Looking up at his face as she did so, from where she knelt. Watching, I felt the familiar sweet ache in the gut that comes from the sight of exquisite beauty. In this case, the beauty of a marriage--a blessed marriage. These two have walked through twenty-some odd years of their lives together and still are moved to tears when expressing their love for each other. Somehow, this portrait was a fitting end to my commemoration of the Friday we call Good. I saw Christ's face shining vividly in the faces of this couple, and felt the sweetness of quiet fellowship in that, our own Upper Room. This literal acting out of the practice of footwashing brought forth, mysteriously, the figurative reality it hints at. And promise. If two people so beautiful as these can make their way through the world, perhaps there is some hope yet for glimmering moments of goodness to spring forth from our messy, yet cleansed, selves.

adults, per children

So last night I made my debut as a Guest Lecturer and, what do you know, it turns out teaching adults isn't so different from teaching children after all. Of course, I suppose that could also have something to do with the fact that the topic was Children's Literature . . . At any rate, I do hope that it was as educationally rewarding for them as it was enjoyable for me :-)

loans & groans

A little while back, I realized that I was rather tired of sending out insanely large numbers of official work "Interlibrary Loan in" emails, so I broke out of the rut of formality and began to have some fun with it. Now, each morning, on the drive in to work, I make up a fitting--if terribly silly--poem of the day, to use as my email notification. For instance:
This day's chilled with snow
But take heart! For you know
That the loan that you wanted
Has finally been granted:
Book Title, by Author
and then . . .
The sun is now shining
And you can stop pining,
For the loan for which you sent
Has finally been lent:
Book Title, by Author
and so on . . .
Well, I now have received a rather gratifying response to these--one that provided me with a hearty chuckle, considering my generally quiet workplace. After receiving one of my notices, a student took one of the old card catalog notecards that we keep as scratch paper, he added to it, and left it on my desk. The book this card was for is called The twenty-seventh wife, by Irving Wallace, and the final product, after he had altered it for me read:

The twenty-seventh wife
Vexed my soul with strife.
But I no longer moan,
I've solace in Interlibrary Loan.

our stories and our childrens'

A professor’s response to my latest assignment left my mind darting rapidly in every which direction, desperately trying to figure out what it was I was trying to get out. I tried to go to bed, without much of a desire to do so. But I just laid there, restlessly, feeling as though I needed to somehow give birth, figuratively speaking, and yet not knowing what sort of child I needed to bear. This is the sort of sleeplessness that does not need to be soothed to sleep; this is the kind that needs to be nurtured, coaxed until it can release the creative seed pushing its way forth.
And so I talked to myself, asking what it was that I needed to focus this energy on once I booted the computer back up again.
Before too long I realized what it was that was itching to be put to words. My professor complimented my latest paper and commented that perhaps it was time for me to “tell [my] own story.” I was amazed that she could pick up on what I have been personally dwelling on for the past several months.
And then it occurred to me that I have, in a sense, been telling other people’s stories. With their permission, mind you, but other people’s stories all the same. I am too cowardly to speak of my own story—not in the sense of the story of my family, obviously, but in the sense of my own deep hurts and fears, through decisions I have made and steps I have taken along the way. So, to you who may be reading, I will forewarn you that I am now going to tell one of my own little life stories, and one of the lessons I have learned thus far in my admittedly sheltered and nerdy little life. . .
For 2 ½ years, my life, internally and externally, had revolved around his. When we were happy together, I floated on air, fearlessly tackling all that life could throw at me. And when our relationship was strained, I withdrew into a brooding cavern of melancholic tendencies, so that my life could fall to pieces around me if it so desired.
We started dating my sophomore year of college—his junior year, after spending the year working together as Intervarsity Bible Study leaders. During that year we had spent much of our spare time around each other, if not technically with each other, and so our relationship flowed naturally once we started purposefully sharing each other’s company. It began with evening walks around campus and the surrounding neighborhoods, and then one night, he was more formal that usual, asking if we could “talk.” Well, of course--we always talk, I thought, suspecting all the same—and in disbelief that he could share my feelings surrounding our relationship. Could it be that he were really interested in my? Well, he was, and thus began our relationship.
Over the next several years, we shared our families, road trips, out-of-the-country trips, and lives with each other. And, as happens so naturally, we grew to love and rely on each other. After some time, in a period of heightened family turmoil, I began to 2nd-guess everything, and grew restless in that, the only relationship I had been in thus far. You see, I was a very inexperienced young woman at that point, and naïve in my inexperience.
And so I made light of our relationship and discounted the hurts I could cause him when I was brutally honest about all my misgivings, uncertainties, and dissatisfactions with our relationship. Somehow, I thought what I did couldn’t really impact him so much. I had some sort of twisted insecurity that made me disbelieve that I could really impact someone else’s life. But of course, we all impact each other immensely, like it or not, and the little things we do and say have great repercussions in the lives of those around us. So, eventually, my wavering uncertainties took their toll. By that point, we were planning for marriage, considering whether to live in his Northwest hometown or in my Southern one. Job interviews for me there and phone calls made from him down here.
But my heart was not in it. I was going through the motions and not sure what was wrong internally. As I was getting ready to travel through France for the summer, putting the finishing touches on my senior thesis, I asked him for some time—time to not communicate with each other, but just to think through it all so we knew where we each were emotionally when I returned. What I did not realize until my return was that he did not understand why. I thought I was asking for some pre-marriage reflection time, knowing that, as an extreme introvert, I had to process thoroughly every minutiae of my life. He thought I was rejecting him, in a sense: telling him I didn’t care enough to want to communicate with him, and telling him I was not sure I wanted to stay with him.
And so, for 2 months, I traveled, researched, wrote, and thought. And for 2 months, he stewed, and grew to rely emotionally on other female friends in my absence. I had some notion that he would read into all my internal processing, and did not worry about ever really losing him. When I came back, I was filled to overflowing with self-realizations and new inspirations, ready to run to his waiting arms. I knew now how wrong I had been, all that time. I had mistreated him, telling myself that he would always be there no matter how much I pushed him away periodically to pursue hobbies or passions without him for a time. I also wrongly thought that I had to be involved with someone else in order to be unfaithful to him. But in fact, I was unfaithful to him in my devaluation of his reaction to my internal life.
I also realized that I had not wanted to fully give him my heart because I selfishly wondered if, just maybe, there was something, someone, more perfect out there, considering the fact that ours was the only relationship I had been in. But, reality is such that it is the mundane that makes for the magic of life. There is not some perfect someone out there for any of us—just a bunch of other bruised souls. Some of us just happen to get along well together, and we have lives that can mesh well enough to stumble along this wearisome, and wonderful, path of life together.
As for that particular time of my life, I ended up with a heart that was rejected for the first time. When I returned from France, I could no longer reach him. For the first time in our years together, we were simply coexisting in space together rather than sharing it. He had become convinced that, as his mother had advised him, I “could not love him the way he needed to be loved.” And so he closed his heart off to me.
He was a good man, a conscientious man, and so he did it well. He suggested that perhaps we should end it, and awaited my reply. And my dam burst open, and I cried for weeks, knowing that it did not really matter what my reply would be. But, in his goodness, our gracious Father saw fit to give me peace all the same. After a few weeks of the tears, I was dry-eyed and out for a run when, suddenly, the floodgates opened again. I wept as I ran, and I knew it was time to let him go and that, not only that, I was ready to do so.
So we parted ways. Mind you, I was not so together as to heal once and for all after that. I let myself end up in a small string of whirlwind relationships without fully healing so that, in the long run, I ended up backtracking and healing from that initial breakup during a years-long spell of singleness. It made for a long and drawn-out process of healing. But it also ended up allowing me the emotional freedom to really figure out what it is that I am here on this earth to do, and which me I am meant to be, for however long I am meant to inhabit a little pocket of this earth.
And why exactly do I need to process this now, so many years later? Who knows, really—don’t we all just spend a lifetime trying to figure out why it is we, and people as a whole, do the things we do? It is odd, in that I am only now “getting it out,” when the hurt is so long past that it feels like it belongs to another me, another lifetime. But no, it was in my short lifespan . . . it was a part of my story and so I have to tell it to myself to remind myself of who I am. Life has this odd tendency to suck the life out of us more often than not, busying us with banalities so much that we don’t even recognize the deepest parts of our own hearts. Somehow, someway, we must stay alive—we must listen to our tears, nurture our hearts. And then, when we have sufficiently listened to our own, we must nurture the hearts of our children. We must tell them stories, our own stories and other people’s. We must listen to them, to those children who are so adept at tapping into the realities of life and yet, who are so vulnerable, so easily squelched by us adults who brush them off as silly children . . .Well, enough for now—my blogging is done for this evening [thank goodness, you say?!? :-)]

PaCharley tells us a story as we celebrate his 78th birthday this evening . . . and GramBea says, "Now Charley, really!," or something to that effect . . . 

kikaonde

Africa is on my mind today, after the gathering last night, in which I had the pleasure of conversing with a delightfully eclectic bunch of others who are either native Africans or, for various reasons, have lived somewhere on that vast continent. So, I am now perusing a learning-Swahili handbook I borrowed--we'll see how I progress in that.
But, my inspiration, for blogging purposes, leads to 2 thoughts for the day:

Thought #1: A story about my little brother:
When we moved to the U.S., he was 5 years old--old enough to be his characteristically precocious self but not yet old enough to fully comprehend things such as race and ethnicity. So, upon our arrival, he heard, for the first time in his life, the term "African American." His little mind processed that term, thinking "Hmmm . . . I was born in Africa and now we are here in America. That's what I am--I'm an African American!" And that is how he spent the first year or so here in the U.S.--proudly introducing himself, and my younger brother [both blond and green-eyed] as "African Americans" to any strangers he may happen to encounter. This lasted until some adult heard the comment and wisely warned Alex against continuing such a potentially imflammatory habit . . .

Thought #2 : Your kikaonde useful-phrase language lesson for the day:
If you ever travel to a small village called Mukinge, in Zambia, Africa, you may want to practice this phrase--Mundeka leka mambo mwane. Kechi nayuka kikaonde ne.
What, you mean you want further explanation that that? Okay, fine. That means "I'm sorry Sir/Madam, but I do not speak kikaonde." And, I specify that this phrase will only be useful in that particular village because I'm afraid it is only one of, at last count, 72 different tribal languages in Zambia alone . . .
And there you have it.

the end result