Light and Shadow

Shadow of blowing leaves,
Though only a part,
Motion in a stagnant room.

I wrote those lines in college, during a class I had come to hate. The way the professor taught, it drained the life and joy out of the subject we were studying (a subject I loved.) It was fall. I was not only bored but becoming depressed, and sitting there in that lifeless room was the last place I wanted to be.

I noticed the shadows on the wall of leaves blowing outside and found them more lifelike than anything in the room, even though they (the shadows) weren’t really anything, just part of the play of light outside where the real tree was. I desperately wanted to be out there with the tree and the wind and the fresh air.

The significance of that moment still surprises me. I’ve never forgotten those few words I wrote in the margin of my notebook, never forgotten the room we were in, the professor, the subject, who my classmates were.

It was the semester I plunged into the worst depression I ever experienced, lasting months and months and changing my life in profound ways. On that day, those simple shadows of leaves represented life to me.

And so today, with rain pouring down since before we woke up, cloudy skies and a dark house, I like this photo that I took a couple of months ago of a graceful golden gingko branch on a tree down the street, with its shadow playing on the wall of the house.

I think how our glimpses of God are essentially like shadows. We couldn’t bear to see His radiance, so we see little parts of Him as He makes them known. Our ways of loving are like shadows compared to the light of His love. Our kindness is nothing like His.

Even this earth in all its natural beauty is only a hint of the glorious new heaven and new earth on the other side of the window of time.

And isn’t it amazing how these shadows, though only parts of His goodness and glory, bring life into the rooms of our hearts. They get us through the stagnant moments and increase our longing for the real world.

May clouds and shadows always make us yearn for light and reality.

Amen.

Eleven Pumpkins Sitting

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me . . . .
Actually, I bought these pumpkins before Thanksgiving, but I loved them and then loved the photo I took of them. And since there are eleven, today seems like a good day to share them with you.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, I met a man who goes by the name King, because that is what they call him in the chopper group he rides with. Yes, he drives a black Harley. And he knew half the people walking in the park. "That woman is a psychiatrist . . . . Let's go that way, I need to give something to my friend whose brother just died . . . . That man in the Melrose jacket, he used to be a basketball star, couldn't you tell?" King also recently has discovered a love of growing vegetables in a friend's gardening. Never stereotype a Harley driver.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, our doggies had to stay inside all day because of the rain. They dealt with my parents' lunch visit, two piano students, and a perfect stranger who came for a meeting. And they behaved wonderfully the whole time. Never assume that your puppy will not eventually calm down and learn to behave.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, our house is cleaner than it has been in a long time, and I'm hoping I can keep it cleaner in the future. Never forget how nice it is once the work is done.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my muscles are sore from working out, something else I hope to do more of in the future. Never forget the advice I heard recently from a chiropractor: you can have pain now because of your discipline, or you deal with worse pain later due to your lack of discipline.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, I think of the "Eleven" piece from Sesame Street so many years ago, with the woman singing in her funny soprano about so many things. (And I just found it on YouTube! What fun!) I had forgotten about the worms yawning. And who knows, we may hear worms yawning all the time and just not recognize the sound . . . .

So, here's to lovely pumpkins, friendly neighborhood bikers, good health, discipline, and yawning worms.

Merry Christmas for one more day.

Happy New Year!

Yes, daffodils are already coming up in our front yard.

They must be as confused as we have been by the alternating cold and warm weather of the past couple of months. But they take on a special, if unseasonable, significance poking their heads up from the soil on New Year's Day.

Whether or not you follow the tradition of making New Year's resolutions, can you escape the sense of newness that comes with this day? The putting up of new calendars, the getting used to writing 2007 instead of 2006, the reminder that at least in some things, we really can start over, we really can make changes, we can live differently from the way we have?

I can't. The newness and hope somehow change the air I breathe on this day.

We took our dogs for a walk yesterday, and from the time we left our front door to the time we returned, the temperature must have dropped about ten degrees. At least it does feel like January today, waking up to 30-something degrees rather than the 70's of the past week. I welcome the brisk air, clear sunshine, and the opportunity to dress as if it is winter (well, okay, more like fall). This, too, fits with the day, the New Year, the freshness of new beginnings.

When we returned from our walk yesterday, our kitchen floor was flooded. It took a few hours to mop up, clean up, go to Home Depot, clear the clog that caused it all. Not what we had planned for New Year's Eve.

On Christmas Day, we walked into our dining room to find a circle of fire in the middle of our dining room table. They don't put "do not leave burning candle unattended" on every candle for no reason. We lost a tablecloth and a beloved glass plate in the process, but water put the flames out easily, for which we were very thankful.

So, with both fire and flood behind us, we figure 2007 can only bring better things. But even if it brings more fire and flood, we know we can handle it!

And some day--some day--the Creator and Sustainer of the daffodils will make all things new. That's the calendar page I most look forward to turning. And at the top on my list of resolutions is to live in anticipation of that day.

Happy New Year!

Sixth Day of Christmas

Since discovering the church calendar, I have come to love experiencing Christmas as a twelve-day celebration. Not only does it free me up to send "late" Christmas cards and gifts, but it really does provide more opportunities to think about what it means that God became man, Word became flesh.

Today I read from N.T. Wright's Christmas Day sermon, which held Psalm 85 up as a background to John 1, and will share his summary paragraph:

But if that larger, global picture gives a brief indication of why John’s repeated ‘grace and truth’ matters, and matters urgently, in the wider world and church, we cannot of course ignore its message for our own lives. One of the great truths of spirituality is that you become like what you worship. We beheld his glory, says John: we gazed at it, long and lovingly, with adoration and worship, so that the marriage of grace and truth which we see and know in the Christ-child can be born in us as well, so that we can be people, we can become communities, in whom God’s grace generates and sustains a human integrity, a wholeness and holiness of character. And the definition of mission . . . can be restated in exactly the same terms: we are to become people in and through whom God’s grace overflows to the world around, producing a new integrity, a new truth and truthfulness, at every level from politics to university study to sexual morality to ecology (where the image of grace from above producing fruitfulness below is especially poignant), and reaching out into human hearts and lives and imaginations with the news that there is such a thing as truth, because there is such a thing as grace, because there is such a person as Jesus, and because in him we see and know God’s living word made living flesh and are summoned to become living words in living flesh ourselves. Grace and truth have met together; justice and peace have kissed each other; truth springs up from the earth, and justice looks down from heaven. From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace; for the law was given through Moses, but grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. Come to him today, taste his grace and truth in bread and wine, and become yourselves wedding guests, feasting at the marriage of heaven and earth.

Merry Christmas!

(This is our Christmas tree from our Christmas visit to Croatia four years ago.)

Charlotte's Web

We just saw it tonight.

You need to see it.

Some people probably call me sentimental. Depending on which definition you use, I might or might not agree with that. But I don't see Charlotte's Web as sentimental. I think it really connects with some deep stuff of life.

At any rate, I was sobbing by the end of the movie and had to ask for Drazen's handkerchief. (His comment on the movie: "It was fun." Vive la difference.)

I remember this book so fondly from earlier years, and I enjoyed learning in later years that the author was the same E.B. White of Strunk and White, so well-known among English majors. I knew it wasn't "just" a children's book.

But it wasn't until tonight that I saw the story on a whole different level, the level that made me sob.

Because it hit me tonight that it is truly because of friends, mostly older friends, who have written or spoken special words about me, that I am alive today. Not that I would have ended up in the smokehouse like Wilbur. But several times in my life I am quite sure I would have died inside, and almost did, had it not been for the words others had applied to me.

Words that told me I was loved.

Words that helped me believe in a "me" beyond the one I was able to see at the time.

Words that pointed me to the One who gave me life to begin with.

Words that gave me hope and a future.

And some of those who wrote and spoke those words have, like Charlotte, left this life. And death will eventually separate us from all those we love . . . for a while.

And that's why I sat there with tears streaming down my face, thinking of Grandmother, and Mr. Wright, and other precious people who are still living and will go unmentioned because they are humble and might be embarrassed.

They are all some friends, terrific, and radiant, as well.

If you haven't seen the movie, go see it. See it in honor of the people who have found the right words for you, who have seen your soul in a way you could not. For the people who have saved your life.

And go find words for others who need them.

(And enjoy it, too: it really is fun!)

Flying Dreams

In fifth grade I had a dream of flying over the playground at school. I've never forgotten it, but I had no more dreams of flying until about two weeks before going to Lookout Mountain.

Interpretations about flying dreams abound, but the main issue for me was that dreaming of flying was so lovely, such a beautiful and free feeling, I wondered if hang gliding might not be a disappointment after the dream flight.

I'm happy to report that my first experience with hang gliding, despite the lack of visual romance alluded to in the earlier post, did not let me down.

Not only that: it outdid my dreams.

The plane took us up to an altitude of 4,000 feet. Up until this time the plane's motor was a constant companion, and of course we were moving pretty quickly, so it felt fast and fairly bumpy. Then Eric said, "I'm going to release us from the plane now. It's going to feel like a big bump."

And it did, and my tummy felt much the way you feel when a fast elevator stops or takes off.

(Here you can see the rope that held us, about to be released.)

But then . . . but then . . . it was just us and the wind.

It was breathtakingly beautiful. I remember saying, "Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness." And "Beautiful. This is beautiful. This is just beautiful."

It was a clear day, and we could see so far in every direction. Not like being in a airplane at all, really, because then you can only see out windows.

It was amazing. It was beautiful.

And so quiet. The peacefulness struck me as much as the beauty.

I would have been happy to just hang there and say nothing (except I couldn't stop saying "this is beautiful....")

But this was supposed to be in part a lesson, not just a dream fulfilled.

So, at some point Eric let me turn the glider left and right and showed me how he slowed it down and made it go faster. I was struck by two things: how relatively simple it was to maneuver the glider, and how much I need to get in better shape. Because even though it's simple, it does take strength.

He pointed out Cloud Canyon State Park, and we wondered at a large green forest atop a plateau in the midst of all the autumn leaves. The leaves, of course, were a big part of why I kept saying "beautiful." They were at their autumn peak, and when you can see them for miles and miles around, the intensity of the color is almost overwhelming.

It was fascinating, too, to have seen them quite close as we were leaving the ground; and then to see the shapes and colors merge into a sort of impressionist painting as we were pulled higher and higher; and then as we began gliding down, to see them take shape again until we could point out individual trees to one another.

I remember asking Eric how long he had been gliding. Six years. What did he do before that? “I was in graduate school for an MBA.” How did he wind up doing this? “I just came up here one time and did it, and after that I was hooked.” After a moment of looking around at the beauty, he added, “I think I made the right decision.”

I remember showing Eric a brilliant red tree, probably a maple, growing in front of a house. And thinking how strange it was to have this view from this perspective. To see these people’s tree in a way that they may have never seen it themselves.

Eric would occasionally have me turn the glider. And sometimes he had me do other things. I always thought it had to do with the gliding lessons, but sometimes it turned out he was just wanting a pose for a photo.

Eventually we were back in the area of the flight park. Eric asked if I wanted to land the glider. I still don’t know if he was serious or not, but I said I thought it would be fine for him to land us! Then he asked how about if we first flew by the launch ramp to “say hello.” I said that was fine with me.

Well, “saying hello” to him meant swooping down over the group of folks gathered at the ramp, so close that we could see each individual face. I’m sure we could have heard their greetings if I had not been screaming. (I learned the following day from a man who was on the ramp at the time that we were going about 50 mph. No wonder it felt so fast!)

Happily I felt the peace and quiet resume as we glided into landing position in the remaining 1300 feet we had to go. I think in a way that was the most amazing part, being so close to the ground, and yet moving above it. I can’t find anything to compare it to.

Inch by inch we came closer to the ground until there was a very small bump and our wheels touched down, rolling to a stop. It took a moment to be unhooked and un-velcroed from the contraption I was in. And then walking was something else! Kind of like trying to walk after you’ve skated for a long time.

Within minutes, once I got my legs back, my main thought was that it already seemed like a dream. Being down on the ground, it was hard to believe that I really had been up there. It was such a very different perspective and experience, where different thoughts and feelings were possible. Much like a dream.

Except that it was real.

The Day Before Hang Gliding

Well, I know you’ve all been waiting on the edges of your computer desk chairs to finally read about my in-the-air hang gliding adventure. (Remember, the part that I had written my heart out about, that got lost when I transferred to BloggerBeta?)

I hope tomorrow to have a good chunk of time to sit and re-reflect on that experience and write in a way that will do it justice.

So right now I thought it might help to share a bit of the journey I took en route to Lookout Mountain Flight Park. To prime my own pump, and perhaps to whet your whistle. (Messy metaphorical sentence, but at least they both have to do with water.)

I drove from Searcy to Memphis that day, went to church, and then drove from Memphis to Sewanee, a lovely mountaintop town in East Tennessee. It’s the home of the University of the South, where a friend of mine finished seminary recently.

This dear friend, when I told him I needed a place to stay in the area, told me about St. Mary’s convent having a guesthouse. “Tell them I sent you” was enough to convince me that I’d probably be welcome. And I was. I called a couple of days ahead of my trip, and they had a bed waiting for me.

I had been to the convent a few years ago, but that was in the daytime, and we walked from the retreat center where we were staying.

This time I got there after dark. I was a little nervous, making turn after turn when I could barely see the road, let alone the signs I’d been told to look for.

But I found it, without any wrong turns. Sister Elizabeth and a big dog named Sara greeted me, and after a quick supper and a walk in the moonlight, I spent a peaceful night.

The next morning I had time for another walk. As winter sets in, take a moment to enjoy these pictures of beautiful fall in the mountains.

This was my home for about eighteen hours! (My room was on the right side.)

The convent is built on the very edge of the mountain. Sorry for the bad lighting, but you can see through the windows and imagine looking from the inside out over a huge beautiful valley.

Autumn is the loveliest, is it not?

This tree branch amazed me. It grew sideways and curved back down to the ground.

If anyone has an explanation for how/why a tree would grow like that, I'd love to hear it. It looks like it is dancing to its own music, doesn't it? Or maybe it was afraid of heights?

And so, after a lovely walk, I got back in the car and after a quick call to the friend who had made the overnight stay possible, drove to Lookout Mountain. By that time, I have to admit, I was wondering if I ought to write a just-in-case goodbye letter to leave somewhere.

You know. Just in case.

And tomorrow I'll see if I can describe the actual flight for you.

Rosemary the Cow

At some point in my childhood or early adolescence, I arrived at the idea that it would be a good thing for me to have a cow one day when the time was right.

It had nothing to do with the phrase “have a cow” that was heard so often for a while.

No, I really thought it would be good for me to own and be responsible for a cow. I suppose repeated readings of James Herriot books had something to do with it, along with Laura Ingalls Wilder being a part of my life.

The thing was, I knew that you had to milk a cow every morning, no matter what. Cold weather, rain, even waking up with a headache could not stop you from milking the cow, or else it would be very bad for the cow.

And I also knew that I struggled with being disciplined.

So, it just made sense to me that being responsible for a cow’s wellbeing was the answer. It would force me to develop a regular routine and be disciplined and committed to it, and I figured this would help transform my character and eventually affect my discipline in other areas of life. (The old-fashioned-ness of it appealed to me, as well. I also recall in fourth grade vowing that I would never have a computer or microwave in my house, the way the Weekly Reader was predicting people would.)

Fast forward to the present.

I haven’t yet had that little house in the country that would make adopting a cow possible. And I haven’t yet become the disciplined person I want to be.

A week or more ago I was shopping at Wild Oats and saw the most precious little rosemary bushes trained to grow like small Christmas trees. I immediately loved them for their Christmas-y look, their Italian connection, and their pungent aroma.

I went over to read the attached card. Among other things it said, “If kept in pot must be watered daily.”

I almost walked away.

But then I thought, “Here is my cow! Rosemary the cow!”

And I brought Rosemary home. She has been staying in my office, the sunniest room in the house. And I’ve been watering her every day.

Every day, that is, until . . . well, umm . . . I’m not sure exactly which day I managed to forget. I know it’s been at least two days. This evening I looked at her and was stricken to see drooping ends all over and some brown areas. I nearly had a cow, if you’ll pardon the expression.

Now her roots are in a bowl of water overnight as I seek to repair the damage. I just hope this little operation will go as well as some of James Herriott’s did. I feel bad about it, and I wonder how it is that I have twelve other houseplants that have been living for several years. I guess it’s because they don’t require daily watering. And it’s that grace at work in the universe, keeping things from going as badly as they ought.

So, whether it’s keeping a plant alive, or keeping my own soul alive, I’m thankful for new beginnings and the grace that keeps us going even when we neglect that daily care.

Trivia?

Today at one point when I was checking my email, the msn menu on one page offered these options for viewing, all in one list:

Hollywood’s most powerful funnymen

10 tips to a low-cost divorce

Making pretty pie crusts

Can Britney bounce back?

And Britney’s story was touted as the story of highest interest.

Those of us who use computers see these little headlines everyday, and I’m not sure why this hit me so hard today. But I was really struck with the following:

Making pie crusts was right there under divorce, as if they belonged on the same page.

The story on divorce was described the way you’d talk about saving money on buying a car or doing a home repair job.

Divorce was in the same phrase with “tips,” as if it’s just a normal thing people go through and might need some friendly tips on the best way to do it. And the emphasis was on saving money, not salvaging relationships or self worth or anything like that.

Two of the items have absolutely nothing to do with the real life of almost anyone viewing the page. They are about movie stars and a singer that surely less than one percent of the people seeing the page will ever be affected by personally.

Does this strike anyone besides me as madness?

It reminds me of Don McLean’s song, “Prime Time.” If you don’t know it, say so and I’ll provide the lyrics. What started out as the craziness of television, where you could watch video footage of the war in Vietnam and be interrupted by a commercial for toothpaste or deodorant, has spread beyond TV to all kinds of media.

I know other people think about this because I read their books and articles. But outside the field of sociology and psychology, do people notice that our brains are being taught to trivialize nearly everything? Does this bother you? Do you see how it affects the society we live in? What kind of effects does this have on you? Can we even know what effects it has on us?

I’m curious to know what you all think.

Christ the King

Today is the Sunday of Christ the King, according to the church calendar. A day that brings to mind celebration and triumph and power and victory, all those “positive” things we modern Americans like so much to focus on.

(It must be said, however, that our ideas about power and victory are generally very different from power as understood through historical Christian teaching.)

We want to triumph in our own lives. We like to celebrate--and rarely even talk about mourning and grieving, not to mention the simple but sometimes excruciating task of bearing our crosses and standing up under the weight of them.

So I, feeling the heavy weight of my particular cross this morning, was deeply touched by this unfamiliar verse of a familiar hymn. The version I grew up singing did not include it:

Crown him the Son of God before the worlds began,
and ye, who tread where he hath trod, crown him the Son of man;
who every grief hath known that wrings the human breast,
and takes and bears them for his own, that all in him may rest.
He walked on this earth. He hurt. He was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. He denied himself, took up his cross, and lost his life.

He sees, he hears, he knows, he cares.

He will redeem all pain and sorrow.

Let’s not leave out that verse. People need to hear it sung.

(For those interested in comparing, this is the same crucifix as pictured in my January 6, 2006 blog entry, from St. Columba Retreat Center. It seems appropriate for this post, as time and weather and woodpeckers have taken their toll, and the Christ figure has disintegrated except for the part you see here which once represented the right arm. It is sad, but also a reminder that Christ himself is alive no matter what time and nature bring. Though he suffered to the end, his life did not end on the cross.)