First time at a Writing Workshop

I am a voyeur.
I relish looking at art
   experiencing art, buying art, being with art
It's cliched I know, but some of my best friends are artists
Still I don't see myself as art or artist.

Our assignment was to describe our eyes
I squinted into a mirror by the window
    struggling to see myself not through glasses, but through artist eyes
"The shape of the mirror frame changes the shape of your face,"
      one of us muses

Now, in our quiet writing time, only thoughts of music come to me
Unbidden, snippets of lyrics dance through my head
"Blue eyes crying in the rain..."
"These eyes have seen a lot of love..."
"You're too good to be true, can't take my eyes off of you..."

"Go deep inside
Find your own voice," the old poet had said

I pick up the mirror once again
A voyeur of my own face

What I am giving up for Lent

"The real miracle is not to walk either
on water or in thin air, but to walk on
the earth" - Thich Nhat Hah, Buddhist Monk

This year, for Lent, I am giving up being constrained by the belief that I don't have enough - enough money, time, or talent. I am fasting from I-am-not-ness, not young enough, not attractive enough, not good enough. I am giving up FEAR, that unhealthy fear that blocks me from the miracle of walking on the earth. Saying I can't followed by the words because-I-am-not is expressly prohibited.

I have been slowly reading and savoring David Adam's little book "A Desert in the Ocean: God's Call to Adventurous Living." Adam, Victor of Holy Island (Lindisfarne), writes extensively on the Celtic tradition and has published numerous collections of prayers and meditations.  This short volume (123 pgs) is a series of meditations based on a poem attributed to St Brendan the Navigator. It asks, no truly, it INVITES, the reader to consider whether God is calling us to live more adventurously.

In the early pages of the book a passage caught my imagination and I have been turning it over in my mind ever since.  Adam's introduction suggests connections between the early Celtic Church and the Desert Mothers and Fathers, especially in their world/church view.  He outlines several of the reasons the Desert Mothers and Fathers moved into the desert: to get away from a church growing in status, to seek a life defined by something other than wealth or power, and to seek God in all things.  They were not running away from anything, but rather toward something, toward a great adventure.

They may not have thought of changing the world, but they were determined to change themselves; they were determined to die FOR something rather than OF something, to show that life had depth, was adventurous and worth living.   -- David Adam, "A Desert in the Ocean", pg 4 (Emphasis mine)

I had to stop and take a deep breath when I read those words.  Apparently having fallen into a trap of viewing "adventure" as one of those things you do/have when you travel to exotic places, try extreme sports, wear trendy clothes or eat unusual food; I assumed it was only for those who had time, money, few commitments, and courage. Typically, I don't see myself as much of an adventurer, instead counting myself lucky to live in the digital age with friends who allow me to live vicariously through them.

Still pondering this notion as I stepped into my neighborhood coffee shop this morning, my husband and I sat down with two young women, recent acquaintances through mutual friends.  As the conversation flowed from women mystics, to fixing buttons, to neighborhood gardens I was struck at how these young women are living adventurous lives. Megan is an artist and musician who easily draws-in others with her creativity. Hanni's desire (call) to create and foster community is a thread that seems to run through all she does: planting a sustainable urban garden, publishing a 'zine, or experimenting with communal living.  They are running toward things that make life worth living, not only for themselves, but by extension for the rest of us.  I am grateful for them.

Suddenly, whack, I am hit over the head with the "Holy 2x4" as a friend calls it. God wants us to live an adventurous life, to LIVE and DIE for something, not just merely live and die! Adventure, me? This is not to say that my current life doesn't have depth or meaning, its just that I think there could be more.  There IS more, if only I will embrace it.  What if I went to sleep each night with the intention of being open to the work of the spirit in my dreams, knowing that the day, God's day, starts while I am asleep? How might my life be different if I woke up every morning with excitement and anticipation, thinking, What adventure will I have today, continuing God's work in the world, the work begun in my dreams? Is not this our real work, the work of the baptized, the work we followers of Jesus are called to do - to live and die FOR something?

Is This Not A Miracle

ONE

At dawn
in late September
I sit on the deck
facing the fog
that engulfs Lake Findley,
close my eyes,
finger my beads,
and repeat slowly,
Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus.
Only the silent fog.
Nothing but silent fog.
Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus.
My eyes open.
The sun
has sliced a path
to the small island,
just beyond the shore.
A blue heron stares back.
Is this not a miracle?

From The Blue Heron and Thirty-Seven other Miracles by Mary Lou Kownacki, OSB

The Feast of the Holy Innocents

It's cold outside and the animals let us sleep late on Friday morning.  I get the rare opportunity to wake on my own, finding "She who Must be Walked" still curled in a tight ball at the bottom of the bed and silence from our "Cat Alarm" behind the closed door of the warm bathroom.  For a few moments I relish being snuggled in a warm bed on a cold day in a quiet house.  AND THEN...

A sound pierces my revery. Somewhere downstairs, unheard by human ears, my cell phone is ringing. "She Who Must be Walked" is matching the unanswered phone's ring with an ever rising mournful howl. Not to be left out, the "Cat Alarm" joins the chorus with indignant "meows" adding to her scratches on the bathroom door. Ah, just another morning at my house.

We reluctantly extricate ourselves from the bed, all thoughts of lingering in its deliciousness now banished. As we busy ourselves with morning tasks of tending to the animals, preparing coffee and making plans for the day, I remind my husband that today, December 28th, is the Feast of the Holy Innocents. "What makes one a HOLY Innocent? As opposed to be just an Innocent?" he asked. My quick response was that I didn't know exactly and suggested perhaps he should ask Pastor Kate or Pastor Tom.

You had to ask this!, I think to my myself. This is NOT what I want to think about today. This is NOT what I want to even PRAY about today. I really don't want to go there. Thinking might lead to feeling, feeling the inconsolable Rachel's pain. I don't like this day coming in the middle of my Christmas celebration.

I don't even open my Bible today, it might open to the second chapter of Matthew, which recounts the story of Herod ordering the killing of all male children under two in the town of Bethlehem. Hoping to keep violent acts of rage and fear out of my consciousness, I occupy myself with the task of purchasing a new cell phone. Crossing that item off my to-do list I move on to organizing Sunday's bulletin for printing. I am playing Reggae music loudly.  If no one turns on the news I might make it through the day. Maybe there is a good comedy we can watch tonight. 

Then I see it, that word, Holy, again.  It's there in the Sanctus.  Three times, Holy, holy, holy.  Changing gears, I read the church office email. Days earlier I'd forwarded to the church email list a prayer for December 28th. Now here in the inbox was a response from a church member asking me to look at the Book of Common Prayer for the collect (prayer) for this day.  You know, the one I am trying to avoid, The Feast of the Holy Innocents. Ack! Thanks!

Reluctantly I open the Prayer Book to page 186 and read these words, "We remember this day, O God, the slaughter of the holy innocents of Bethlehem by King Herod. Receive, we pray, into the arms of your mercy all innocent victims; and by your great might frustrate the designs of evil tyrants and establish your rule of justice, love, and peace... "  All my attempts at avoiding thinking about Innocents, Holy or otherwise, are gone now. I want justice, love and peace, but I can't have it without remembering (from the Latin remorari: re=again and morari = to be mindful of). I have to move my focus from recoiling over slaughter to again being mindful of victims, perpetrators, tyrants, and inconsolable pain. I believe that God wants us to remember them ALL while we work to establish a rule of justice, love, and peace. 

Later, as I lay quietly in bed I re-membered: the children of Darfur, the children of war-torn Syria, the child soldiers of Africa, the children sorting through trash, the children living in poverty in my own country, those killed by Hurricane Sandy, those in the Colorado movie theater, the 26 children and teachers in Newtown, Harrisburg's 12 murder victims this year, Matthew Shepherd and all those killed because they were perceived to be different, young girls whose only crime was to want to learn, my former client Kathi and her likely killer Joseph Miller, my friend Sister Betty and her convicted killer Mark Spotz. The innocent and the not-so innocent, I re-member them all.

Although my husband has long since fallen asleep, I come back around to his morning question about what makes the innocents holy. While we typically associate the word holy with the divine or the sacred, I found that its root is in an Old English word halig, meaning whole or more precisely uninjured, healthy, sound, entire and complete. Perhaps the boy children in Bethlehem were not only holy because of their senseless murder by Herod's rage to find the Christ child, but also because at the time of their murder they were healthy, sound, and complete. The prophet Jeremiah tells of lamentations and bitter weeping. What other response COULD there be?

The Gospel of Matthew ends the story of Herod's murder of the little boys of Bethlehem with a quote from Jeremiah about a weeping Rachel who refuses to be comforted "...because they are no more." Going back to the Old Testament, in the 31st chapter of Jeremiah, I found the prophet goes on to tell me/us:

Keep your voice from weeping,

and your eyes from tears;

for there is a reward for your work,

says the LORD:

they shall come back from the land of the enemy;

there is hope for your future,

says the LORD:

your children shall come back to their own country.

Perhaps it is in the re-membering, in being mindful of these innocents, that I/we make them Holy. Maybe it is the act of remembrance before God that restores them, and by extension us, to wholeness and entirety.

And what then of the perpetrators, the abusers, the killers, the torturers, the murders? Why should I re-member them? I have struggled to forgive them. Is that not enough? But then I remember -  their mothers weep also, because their children too, are no more. In the middle of this joyous Christmas season, I realize that  I am broken, as well! Maybe my act of remembrance of them before God, restores the killers among us (and the rage and fear within us) to wholeness. All shall be well again.

I take a deep breath, re-member them all, let the emotions flow through me. Another deep breath and I am finally ready to allow sleep to come. "...for there is reward for your work...there is hope for your future..." Amen. Come Lord Jesus.

This is Wednesday - Kid Style

"Why do we need to learn about God and Jesus? I already learned it and know all about it," whined Luke just as I shut the classroom door. Steven quickly chimed in, "Yeah, why do we? It's boring."




Uh-oh, looks like it Sunday just became Wednesday for Sophia's Playground, the children's ministry I coordinate for a small church. My class of 4 to 7 year olds was about to stage a mutiny and I didn't see it coming. (I never do.) Could I survive this "onslaught" and still remain captain of the ship? I'd better think fast (and pray faster!)




Thoughtfully I said, "Okay. What do YOU want to learn about? " Luke's answer came fast. It was sharks and karate moves and fossils. Steven wanted to know how God created crayons. Claire thought we should learn about Princesses and Rachel agreed, "Yeah, Princesses!" Bella was quiet for a while then thoughtfully suggested that learning about faraway places would be good. "Or maybe we could just take a trip to the park," she offered. Only Sarah, who always assures me that angels surround all the time, differed, "But I LIKE learning about God and Jesus."




Humm, this not what I planned for tonight. My teacher's lesson book indicated that we were to study the story of Jonah on the boat in the storm, running away from Nineveh. There was nothing in the index about sharks, whales maybe, but no sharks. I couldn't find anything about karate moves, fossils, crayons, or Disney Princesses. I could be in trouble here, on a boat in a storm like Jonah. We were pretty comfortable with each other, these kids and I, and if they thought it would quell the storm they wouldn't hesitate to throw me overboard to the whales.




Unlike Jonah I wasn't running away. My planned lesson went back into my bag and I pulled out Genesis. I used the creation story to work in their questions about fossils and sharks, and how God granted us intellect to create crayons and dollies named Molly. We talked about "Princesses" like Queen Esther. By snack time we were fully engaged in the discussion, even Sarah came up with an offbeat question or two. The Spirit was certainly upon our little classroom.



I am thankful for having to throw that lesson plan into my bag and following where my heart was led. I am even more thankful that the large "Wednesdays" in my life brought me to my "little church job", a place I certainly would not be if I had followed my original "life plan." I am grateful for the little "Wednesday", grateful for children who keep me young, who challenge my faith and who assure me that angels are everywhere all the time and in all places.

Words - An Invitation

Looking back I often regret that I did not take Latin in high school. At the time I thought it was stupid and old fashioned. At 14 or 15 I certainly had no interest in being involved in anything that might be remotely considered old fashioned. The cool kids were not taking Latin and I wanted to be a cool kid. "What's the point of a dead language?" we all said. The value of studying Latin only became apparent to me as an adult. I no longer care if I am cool, hip or da bomb. It's still flattering if someone calls me cool, I'll admit, but it doesn't matter anymore. I am living by my own lights.





The older I get the more I like words and understanding their origins. Endlessly fascinating to me, is researching the Latin, Greek, Old English or other linguistic roots and meanings of a word. Inspired by my friend and wordsmith, Dody, who chooses and uses words in the most spiritual way, I have come to see that unexamined words are like birds in a tree. They fly by me most of the time and I don't really need to bother to identify them, to notice the details of what they really look like. When I get out my binoculars to look closely at the birds I can not only see their species, but I can also observe their behavior thereby making them more meaningful to me. And it can be that way with the words I choose. If I stop for a moment to examine a word at its root I can often use it in a way that is more potent for both reader(or hearer) and me.





Recently, I have been exploring being a catalyst. This word comes from the Greek kata, meaning “down” and lysis or “a loosening.” A catalyst is a person who can break ideas down and loosen up the energy within, thus being an agent for change. The catalyst is the means and vehicle for change, not the change itself. The change is already within the people waiting to be loosened and unleashed.






I am, by nature, a collaborative person. This is especially true when working on projects, creative and otherwise. When I began writing this blog I was thinking of it not only as a way of writing my story, but also as a way of reaching out to others whose lives have not gone the the way they planned. I wanted them and, by extension me, to feel less alone, less odd and less adrift on a sea of uncertainty.






Your feedback has not altered my goal, but rather has suggested that I am on the right track. While the site is mine, (meaning you can't use anything here without my permission and proper attribution), I would like it to also be a place where you can share your Wednesday stories. I hope that I, through this site, can serve as a catalyst for bringing forth your stories, your struggles and your joys as you find your own paths.



Please email me your This Is Wednesday stories at thisiswed@gmail.com

Quicksand Redux AKA I Hate When my Words Come Back to me

He'd given me fair warning. "If I get home before you do, I'm going to start cleaning out the vegetable bin," my husband said. It was late summer and we'd fallen behind, way behind, on our produce consumption. There were potential science experiments lurking at the bottom of the produce drawer. Something had to be done and someone had to do it. I would be spending the day at Joshua Farm, as I do every Thursday,  and I'd be bringing home a load of fresh fruit and veggies, the payment for my labor. 

Produce sucks me in, so gently and seductively, that at first I never see the warning signs. My mind gets busy spinning out scenarios on how I'll use all this loveliness, "Half dozen ears of corn, a bag of plums, zucchini, okra, onions, garlic and tomatoes, oh my.  Sure I'll freeze those peaches and make a couple of pies. Watermelon, that will be good for desert. Never-mind that it won't fit in our refrigerator. I'm gonna pickle all that okra and make vegetable soup."  I constantly misjudge just how much two people can eat in a week.  Instead of paying attention to the signs that read, "DANGER. QUICKSAND. STAY ON PATH." I forge ahead.  I can't say no. I have a plan. Suddenly, I am knee deep in tomatoes, peppers, and green leafy things; and sinking faster than I realize. I keep thinking, "...But, I'll freeze it. I'll try canning. I think I can dry this." In reality I have limited freezer space, never canned anything in my life, and have only ever dried herbs.

When I arrive home on that Thursday night, my husband is on his knees in front of the refrigerator throwing my plans into a box for the composter. The warning sign is way behind me now.  My hip waders are filling with quicksand as I grab apples and peppers from the box. "Look," I say, "If we cut out the bad spots these apples can be apple butter and these plums aren't too bad either. It can be fruit butter, instead.  These peppers are salvageable, just chop up the good parts, put them in baggies in the freezer." My husband is trying to speak reason to me. He is literally telling me to FLOAT, but I can't hear him as I snatch another soft peach from the box. I am not listening. I throw a pot on the stove, get out the cutting board and knife, attacking the fruit like a woman possessed by demons.

"Where is your stick?" he says,

I rage back at him as I furiously peel and slice fruit. "What? What on earth are you talking about? What stick?" I want to be eating dinner, not chopping fruit or having this inane conversation.

"Where is your stick, Woman? Quit flailing around like a crazy person," says he and at that moment I slice into my finger instead of the plum I was holding.

"Oow!" I drop the knife and grab my finger. Finally, I hear. "Oh, I hate when my words come back to me," I stammer as my husband places a paper towel over my bleeding finger.  He says gently as his hand closes over mine, "I know." I lean back, relax my body and float; allowing myself to be hauled out of the muck.