Some Frustrations for the Day

Sick. My body aches, my nose is dripping, and my lungs are hacking. Most of all, I am just sapped of energy. Not a fan. Sickness makes me cranky about everything else, hence this post. There is still work to do, so I am finalizing mission trip details, writing auction thank-you notes, and trying to reconstruct a sermon I preached in South Africa from my couch. (How is it, by the way, that I can spend so much time writing a sermon, and put so much energy into preaching it, and then immediately forget it? And where on earth is the journal that I wrote the notes in??) I am thankful for the ability to telecommute.

Speaking of the mission trip, if any of you have suggestions of free/cheap things to do in NYC with youth, I would love to hear them.

In the news: I don't really have words for this, except that I can't believe it is considered a legitimate legal defense. Maybe I would if I equated the termination of pregnancies with murdering children. Still, walking into a church and shooting someone - how is that okay?

Quitting. For the umpteenth time but probably the first truly serious time, I am trying to quit a particularly unhealthy vise. It's a good thing, it's the right thing, but I'm sure it's not contributing positively to my mental state at the moment.

Online Dating. For the record, I'm not actually online dating; I'm more....online perusing. Periodically, one of my friends will sign up for an online dating service and convince me that I should do likewise, which generally involves me filling out half of a profile, becoming annoyed and giving up, getting "matched" with a list of people who seem completely arbitrary and mostly unsuitable, and using the list as my comic relief for the day while I proceed to block my profile. That's in the best of times, when I actually want to meet people. Right now, something I thought would work out doesn't seem to be going much of anywhere, and while I'm willing to have some patience and see what might develop, I know it is not good for me to put myself on a shelf in case it actually goes somewhere someday. However, I have zilch interest in meeting anyone new at the moment, although a part of me wishes that I did. But I figured that maybe taking a look at some of the possibilities might help me not to set myself up for the potential of increased jadedness should this not work out, which is looking like the most likely possibility at this point. Yeah....that was delusional. Conservative religious fanatics (funny who you get matched with when you say faith is important in your life, even if you identify yourself as very liberal) and men who can't remember reading a book and who can't construct a grammatically correct sentence don't exactly instill me with hope.

People who cannot have a conversation without pointing out something that is wrong with your behavior or personality. Yes, that entire sentence needed to be in bold.

Disliking people. There is a person I know. Everyone we mutually know assumes we are friends, because we have many interests in common. They also assume that I am very supportive of the ministry this person runs, because it is aligned with many of my interests. Sometimes I think I should like this person, but I just...don't. I feel disrespected and disregarded every time we are in contact. Sometimes I think I should be more involved in this ministry, but then I think, why? My experience in this area has not been valued enough for anyone to actually ask me to get involved. Which goes back to feeling disrespected and disregarded. Part of me says, stop being petty. Part of me reminds me that I don't have time anyway, so I'm not worrying about it after I post this to get it out of my head. And I'm reminded that people like to be appreciated. People like to be asked, and we sometimes feel unvalued if we're not. A good lesson for church matters.

On that note, I'm off to appreciate some church members through more thank-you notes.

Prayer

Allow me a brief observation before I begin the real topic of this post. Daily blogging is more difficult than it seems. I am at my best if I blog during the day, before my brain has been worn down to a thin strand of consciousness. However, my work schedule often doesn't allow for that - unless I were to get up early to blog, and we all know that isn't going to happen. Hence I am left with the end of the evening for blogging much of the time, and by then my ability to write coherently has gone to crap. Although, it's about 4pm right now, and I'm not sure I'll be any more coherent now. Anyway...

Today I attended a Planned Parenthood training session for clergy. It was more helpful than I expected in several ways, but one of the most interesting thing about it was having a room full of liberal clergy talking about issues of pastoral care for women who are considering or have had an abortion. The subject of prayer came up. Keep in mind that this is a room full of ministers and rabbis, people who one might assume would be quite at ease with prayer. Not so! One by one, we began to divulge our discomfort with offering to pray for and with people.

The reasons differed somewhat; some worried about imposing their own beliefs upon others, some felt conflicted about the ways that people might expect us to pray, others simply thought it was awkward. But few of us were totally at ease with offering to pray with people.

My own awkwardness about prayer is connected to how I learned to pray - in an evangelical fellowship in college. First of all, prayer was often used there as a way of demonstrating piety. "Good pray-ers" were seen as more mature Christians and more righteous and spiritual people. As I came to resent the parading of devotion, public prayer also began to feel less comfortable for me.

There was also a very specific common jargon used for prayer. As I grew and took a different path, those words and phrases no longer fit my beliefs or spirituality, and some of them I now find deeply offensive. But when I pray aloud, those are the words that pop into my head, and since I am an extrovert with very little verbal filter, they are also the words that pop out of my mouth. I then have to hear myself say them, which I do not particularly enjoy, since they are the same things that would make me cringe if anyone else said them.

So, if I am praying in public, I generally write out my prayers in advance, or at least make detailed notes. People tell me my prayers are too short - an effect of both my general economy of words in public speaking and my discomfort with "practicing your piety in public." I don't know; I can't remember ever wishing that someone would keep praying longer. I do know it may be time for me to develop a new prayer vocabulary to replace the unsuitable one that lingers from my past.

Dann bete du, wie es dich dieser lehrt by Rainer Maria Rilke

Now pray,

as I who came back from the same confusion

learned to pray.

I returned to paint upon the altars

those old holy forms,

but they shone differently,

fierce in their beauty.

So now my prayer is this:

You, my own deep soul,

trust me. I will not betray you.

My blood is alive with many voices

telling me I am made of longing.

What mystery breaks over me now?

In its shadow I come into life.

For the first time I am alone with you -

you, my power to feel.

Communication: More is More

I just got home from a meeting in which there was quite a bit of tension and general bad feelings. I have decided that most of the problem comes down to lack of communication. Policies not settled or explained adequately before confusion arose. Relevant people and committees not consulted. People talking about each other rather than to each other. Words and actions governed by suspicion instead of collaboration. You know, all the usual ways humans get each other all upset.

Of course, I get into trouble for this ALL THE TIME.

The last couple of years have been a learning curve on the topic of communication. When I was in a smaller church, there were fewer people and fewer structures, and everyone talked to each other more often, so it wasn't such a huge deal for me to just have an idea and do something about it. At my current church, if I make some decision and run off to do my own thing and get it done, it affects about a gazillion other people, many of whom think (often rightly) that they should have been included in the making of the decision. I am learning this the hard way. If you want things to go peaceably, communicate MORE than you think you need to, not less. It's pretty difficult to over-inform people about decisions and activities in the church. In this case, less is not more. Less is just less.

Please note that the same is not true in sermons. More words do not a better sermon make.

Invictus

Last night, I finally got around to seeing "Invictus." I had planned to see when it first came out, but it seemed to disappear from theaters in a nanosecond, so I was glad to see it reappear in the second-run theater (where I happen to have free passes bought at last year's youth auction - bonus!).

It's a very good movie (movie critic, I am not), with a moving story, and Morgan Freeman portrays Nelson Mandela in a way that is both powerful and deeply human. I wondered how they would set up the racial divide, which could easily be oversimplified. The very first scene is of a white rugby team in spotless uniforms practicing on a green field in front of a private school; a pan across the street shows black children playing soccer in the dust of a township. Mandela's caravan traveling the road between draws both groups to their respective fences, the black children cheering wildly, the white boys quiet and suspicious.

I was actually fairly impressed with how the racial issues were handled. The violence and horror of apartheid was addressed honestly, without demonizing white people as a whole. The deep distrust between racial groups in South Africa and the difficulty of reconciliation was a continuous theme, presented especially well by Mandela's bodyguard, who even at the end found a peace with one another that was still somewhat tentative.

That tentativeness was perhaps what I found to be most honest about the movie - but keep in mind that this is coming from someone who was there not long ago, and had fairly strong reactions to the racial divisions that still exist there. Those shanty towns in the movie are still there. The townships still look the same. The boundaries between the rich white areas and the poor black areas are still just close, and just as clear. Some of the comments made by white people in the movie about what Mandela's election meant for them, are the same comments I heard there, twenty years later.

Perhaps people really did move toward a collective national identity through a rugby team, and through an administration that urged reconciliation. My tour guide at Robben Island (who I seriously think may have played Mandela's friend and consultant in the movie...the guy looked and sounded EXACTLY the same) spoke the same message, that those who imprisoned him for so many years were now his countrymen and brothers, that he and others must set aside the past and forgive in order to move toward a better future for their country. I know, I know, it's just a movie, and it's not supposed to tell the entire story of a country. I guess I just wish that the situation in South Africa was as "solved" as it seems to be at the end of "Invictus."

Famous Fans

While looking at the lineup for Shamrock Fest, I noticed with great amusement that the Enter the Haggis listing mentions the Haggis Heads, the group of fans who "follow the band from gig to gig." You see, I am one of these people, although whether I wish to be described as one varies from day to day. I did the fan tour to Ireland. I've shown up at their gigs in Massachusetts, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Canada, and probably some other places I've forgotten, even though I live in New York. I suppose I might as well fess up to it. We are, admittedly, a rather nutty group of people, and apparently it's gained us some notice, or notoriety. I rarely see a piece of media coverage for the band that doesn't mention us.

What the articles don't mention is the strange process that takes us from liking the music to becoming one of these nomadic fans. Since most of my non-Haggis Head friends think I've completely fallen off the deep end, I thought I'd take a moment to write about my experience of Extreme Fandom.

What happened to me first was the music, or rather the magnetism of the whole live performance. After a day at my first Irish festival, listening to a series of derivative and monotonous Celtic rock bands, I was pulled to the front of a surging crowd as an entirely different kind of band took the stage. I found myself jumping, clapping, and shouting along to a surprising mix of bluegrass, jazz, blues, prog rock, Caribbean, and alternative influences, somehow melded with the bagpipes, fiddle, melodies, and storytelling sensibility of traditional Celtic music. It's a little embarrassing to think about now, but I could barely speak coherently after that show. I scoffed when a then-stranger (not so much a stranger anymore) at the merchandise table told me I should come along on their trip to Ireland, but, well, I've already mentioned how that turned out.

When I saw that they'd be playing an hour and a half away, I went, and that show turned into another, and another. I started meeting people - other people who showed up at multiple shows and seemed to share my penchant for driving considerable distances for live music. I checked out the website and found a fan forum where there is discussion of a wide variety of topics, band and otherwise (which I rarely check anymore, as its function has mostly been replaced by FB and chat, but I digress). I started meeting people before the shows for dinner, and hanging out afterward, then carpooling, then crashing at their houses and sharing hotels. If you show up a couple of times and talk to people, you start getting invited to the after-show brunches, and the mass camping for festivals. We've wiled away late nights chatting, been there for each other in crisis, spent holidays together. I've made good friends and traveling companions.

No offense to the band - they're fantastic musicians, of course - but it didn't take me long to start traveling, not for them, but for my friends. What the media doesn't mention is that we don't so much "follow the band around" as use their performances as the center of social gatherings with a great soundtrack.

The energy of the shows is kind of addictive. The exhilaration is definitely a break from the humdrum of the everyday, which is probably part of why we keep planning our gatherings around their shows. But there are other bands that provide that - many of whom I've come across through my ETH-related travels, and a couple of whom I've also been known to trek long distances to see. Maybe other bands have groups of fans like this too, and I just don't know about them, but the Haggis Heads seem to me to be peculiar. We are a found family, wacky and dysfunctional, and usually not living entirely in harmony with one another, but a family nonetheless.

As it happens, I am on a bit of a Haggis hiatus at present. The money, time, and drama involved has gotten to be a little much. I've seen the band so many times now that I take the performances for granted. I've been a little disillusioned with them as of late. I need a break (which will probably not last long). Despite the respite I need at the moment, I don't regret the last couple of years of mania. Good times, good music, good friends, a little infamy...what more do you want?

Useful - More Reflections on Haiti

Yesterday's fashion post is a fairly good example of what happens when there is too much heaviness on my mind: my brain explodes into frivolity. I am not good at holding onto sorrow or anger - which is in some ways a strength. But the flashes and spurts of my emotional life are a post for another day. During this time, I am very conscious that the ability to deal with the tragedy in Haiti in small doses, to think about it and then put it away in favor of lighter topics, is a luxury.

Many of us are feeling the pull to help somehow, which is great. The organizations on the ground in Haiti have made it easy for us to do so, by providing us with online mechanisms to donate, and lists of items that can be sent. However small our contributions, the people there can definitely use them. 54% of Haitians live on less than $1 per day; 78% make less than $2 per day, and according to these statistics (the surveys vary a bit), the gross national income per capita is $480.52. Your $10, $25, $50 donation goes a long way there. We're collecting donated items at church to assemble baby kits and hygiene kits. I have no doubt these things will be used.

I'm not sure what more I could do right now; I can't jump on a plane and hop down there right this minute, which is probably the only solution to the uselessness I feel toward this crisis. A solution to my feelings of uselessness is not necessarily a solution to the needs in Haiti. As someone with basically no medical or construction skills, I wouldn't be all that useful there, either. What I have is the ability to give a bit of money, collect donations, and keep the people of Haiti in my prayers and thoughts, which I guess I can do just as well from my cozy living room.

When I was there in 2000, I was not any more capable than I am now. I nailed a few tin sheets onto the roof of the school we were building, but aside from that, I let my teammates handle the "real" work. I held children, blew bubbles, painted fingernails, exchanged basic words in English and Kreyol, let the older girls braid my hair into cornrows (which, if you have seen my straight, fine hair, probably sounds pretty comical...and was, according to the pictures). I don't know that it was really any more useful than what I'm doing right now. The money spent on that trip could have fed people. But it felt more real to be there, to hold hands and try to work out how to communicate, to hand out shoes and t-shirts from my suitcase before I left and go home with only the clothes I was wearing.

The big question I can't really even begin to address is the "why?" I have, in the last few days, discussed a number of times the injustice of this situation, and the question of, if God exists, what on earth is God thinking, or doing? I know, according to the assumptions about clergy, I'm supposed to have answers for all of this, but I don't. And please, let us consider for a moment some of those who have thought that they do. I'll stay far away from that road, thanks. Instead, I share with you the text of a hymn that was sent to me today.

In Haiti, There is Anguish

ST. CHRISTOPHER 7.6.8.6.8.6.8.6 (“Beneath the Cross of Jesus”)

In Haiti, there is anguish that seems too much to bear;

A land so used to sorrow now knows even more despair.

From city streets, the cries of grief rise up to hills above;

In all the sorrow, pain and death, where are you, God of love?

A woman sifts through rubble, a man has lost his home,

A hungry, orphaned toddler sobs, for she is now alone.

Where are you, Lord, when thousands die—the rich, the poorest poor?

Were you the very first to cry for all that is no more?

O God, you love your children; you hear each lifted prayer!

May all who suffer in that land know you are present there.

In moments of compassion shown, in simple acts of grace,

May those in pain find healing balm, and know your love’s embrace.

Where are you in the anguish? Lord, may we hear anew

That anywhere your world cries out, you’re there-- and suffering, too.

And may we see, in others’ pain, the cross we’re called to bear;

Send out your church in Jesus’ name to pray, to serve, to share.

Tune: Frederick Charles Maker, 1881

Text: Text: Copyright © 2010 by Carolyn Winfrey Gillette. All rights reserved. Permission is given for use by those who support Presbyterian Disaster Assistance.

***A late addition: a reflection on the question of where God is in the midst of this tragedy, and more pictures from Port-au-Prince.

On a Less Serious Note, a Word About Fashion

Something strange and disturbing has happened in fashion in the last year or two. Are we longing for the greater economic stability of the Reagan years, by chance? Because in fashion, the 80s have come back with a vengeance. And much as I would not be pleased to see a return of Reaganomics, this fashion trend is not one that gives me great joy. I thought we realized the first time around that tapered pants and pleats were almost universally unflattering, and yet, there they are on the clothing racks again. Long tunics and oddly-cut tops abound. In Old Navy yesterday, I was greeted by the sight of a mannequin in a blinding combination of tennis ball yellow and a very bright aqua. Ow.

Rather than despair, however, I have decided to experiment with developing a new personal style. I refuse to go near skinny jeans or tapered pants. I will continue to wear my boot-cut jeans and wide-legged trousers, thank you very much. But some of these things, I may be able to adopt as my own. I am particularly fond of the abundance of scarves that are now available, and have decided that I officially love this scarf and big, fun earrings combination. I am trying out thin, drape-y layers, and I have given way to the long cardigan trend. Going for basic, neutral colors and garments with a bit of flow to them, with pops of bright color here and there. It's not very rockstar, nor is it the more tailored look I have gone toward professionally in the past, but I kind of like it...

....even though I am walking dangerously close to the earth mother look that so many clergywomen have adopted, of which I am not at all a fan (for me. I am mostly neutral on whether other people go that route, at least when I am being the best, least judgmental version of myself).

This is the scarf that I bought last night. I do believe it is *gasp* a floral. What is the world coming to?

Haiti

I was in Haiti in the summer of 2000, nearly a decade ago. I had never seen, and have not seen since, such devastating poverty, although I have been to a number of other places with terrible conditions. It was something straight out of one of those commercials asking you to sponsor children in third world countries: people living in shacks thrown together from cardboard and corrugated tin, drawing drinking water out of the same stream where they bathed and animals defecated. The only animals that thrive there are the goats, because they eat garbage. It's not uncommon to see children with yellow hair above their mahogany skin, because they were too malnourished even before birth for the pigment to develop. Meanwhile, these children with their distended stomachs and huge, hungry eyes wanted to touch my hair; ironically, blond hair is supposedly lucky.

Today I am sitting at my desk, in my office that is bigger than almost every house I saw in Haiti, giving the end of my microwaved beef stew to my dog because I have the luxury of having too much food, and thinking about the earthquake, and about that country that was so hard to love but which I found myself loving anyway.

Other people are thinking about it too, I know - thinking about how things like this can happen to people who have already suffered so much. (On a side note, is it just me, or has the NY Times been talking about religion and faith an awful lot lately?) Most of the people I met in Haiti did believe that their poverty was their punishment for some sin, that the corruption and the machine guns pointed at them on the streets were a sign of God's wrath toward some vast corporate wrongdoing. I don't believe in that angry God, but the pictures of Port-au-Prince in rubble and flames help me understand why they do.

There are all sorts of organizations offering assistance, and plenty of opportunities to help. I've been keeping up with the updates on the RCA website, and my church is sending donations through Reformed Church World Service. Regardless of who you go through, please consider sharing your abundance during Haiti's time of even greater need.

Instead of a poem today, song lyrics: "Haiti" by the Arcade Fire.

Haïti, mon pays,
wounded mother I'll never see.
Ma famille set me free.
Throw my ashes into the sea.

Mes cousins jamais nés
hantent les nuits de Duvalier.
Rien n'arrete nos esprits.
Guns can't kill what soldiers can't see.

In the forest we lie hiding,
unmarked graves where flowers grow.
Hear the soldiers angry yelling,
in the river we will go.

Tous les morts-nés forment une armée,
soon we will reclaim the earth.
All the tears and all the bodies
bring about our second birth.

Haïti, never free,
n'aie pas peur de sonner l'alarme.
Tes enfants sont partis,
In those days their blood was still warm

Copyright Laws?

It occurs to me that I may be engaging in copyright infringement with all this poetry posting. Anyone know? Doing some research now...

Lot of Lust

A few days ago, a woman in my congregation and I were discussing relationships. It is crazy, by the way, how fast women can bond over this topic. Drop the word "relationships" or make a comment about how difficult men are, and you're instant BFFs. The discussion of men's foibles (women's foibles are fine fodder too, if your relationship is of the same-gender variety, but nothing galvanizes the female bond quite like criticism of men), and of the inner workings of relationships, melds us together in a vast, slightly insane sisterhood - but at least we always have something to talk about. Anyhoo, this woman, who looks sort of demure and grandmotherly, shared with me her formula for what successful relationships need: laughter, loyalty, and lust.

I believe she may be the only person to ever tell a minister about the necessity of lust.

When I told her so, she laughed at me in that "Aren't you a cute little remnant of the Victorian era" way, told me that ministers are people too, and wished me a "lot of lust." Crack me up.

I am, in this way, completely spoiled by my crazy progressive church, where there is very little expectation that ministers' lives will be any more "holy" than anyone else's. No one watches my house to see who comes and goes. I don't think most of them know exactly where I live. They don't freak out if they run into me at a bar (which is good, since being in bars is part of what they hired me for). Walking down the street with a guy does not cause a near-apocalypse. The fact that I sing with a rock band is vaguely interesting, but not the least bit scandalous. It's nice. And rare. I've been enough affected by other congregations where that is not the case that I started a bit to hear this woman even use the word "lust," let alone in a positive sense. Guess there's more repression in there than I thought.

Now that I have been educated on the subjects of love and lust, today I begin what I suspect may become a series of installments with no particular regularity, which I am going to call Love Poems for the Jaded. Or perhaps, ______ Poems, for We Who Can't Bring Ourselves to Say the L-Word.

"In Paris with You" by James Fenton

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful

And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.

I'm one of your talking wounded.

I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.

But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled

And resentful at the mess that I've been through.

I admit I'm on the rebound

And I don't care where are we bound.

I'm in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,

If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,

If we skip the Champs Elysees

And remain here in this sleazy

Old hotel room

Doing this and that

To what and whom

Learning who you are,

Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of

The little bit of Paris in our view.

There's that crack across the ceiling

And the hotel walls are peeling

And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of paris.

I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.

I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,

I'm in Paris with...all points south.

Am I embarrassing you?

I'm in Paris with you.

P.S. - I'm pulling many of these poems from Garrison Keillor's collection, Good Poems for Hard Times, a book which keeps reintroducing me to my love for words.

Fry Yourself

So, last spring I made a fairly major screw-up with church stuff by assuming (and we all know what happens when you assume) money would appear for something I thought was important, and starting to make arrangements before checking with the necessary people. I'm just getting used to this whole checking with the necessary people thing, which I suppose is kind of a late lesson, but what do you do? Anyway, the whole saga is rearing its ugly head again, and turning out to be an even bigger deal than I originally thought, which I can hopefully solve by 6:30pm. Ha. In the meantime, while I wait for the necessary people to call me back and help me solve this conundrum, blogging seems like a good idea.

By nature, I am not particularly inclined toward considering all factors or risks before making major decisions. I am of the, "It seems good, I'll do it, and deal with whatever goes wrong as it comes up" school of decision-making. This doesn't really go over well with people who are more wired to look for and avoid potential disasters before they happen. Nor is it usually comfortable for people who are affected by my spontaneous planning. I'm getting better, but I have to really work at making myself slow down and go through the proper steps.

On the other hand, one of the things I rather like about myself is my willingness to risk, and not worry overly much about obstacles or consequences. So far it's worked out for me. I've done some dumb things, but nothing incredibly stupid or disastrous. I've had to dig out of some fairly large holes, and that has developed in a me slightly more of a think, THEN act inclination. But on the whole, it's also led to a really interesting life. (Boredom being one of the few consequences that does regularly occur to me and dissuade me from certain courses of action.)

I guess what I'm saying is...it's good for me to learn to work within an institution and not throw off the whole system or freak everyone out with my randomness. I don't need to be a maverick ALL the time. On a personal level, though, I don't ever want to be someone who is so afraid of pain or struggle that I won't take chances. I want to feel, and move, and live fully. I want, as today's poem says, to want something badly enough to fry myself. Which will make more sense after you read it.

"the lesson of the moth" by Don Marquis

i was talking to a moth

the other evening

he was trying to break into

an electric light bulb

and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows

pull this stunt i asked him

because it is the conventional

thing for moths or why

if that had been an uncovered

candle instead of an electric

light bulb you would

now be a small unsightly cinder

have you no sense

plenty of it he answered

but at times we get tired

of using it

we get bored with the routine

and crave beauty

and excitement

fire is beautiful

and we know that if we get

too close it will kill us

but what does that matter

it is better to be happy

for a moment

and be burned up with beauty

than to live a long time

and be bored all the while

so we wad all our life up

into one little roll

and then we shoot the roll

that is what life is for

it is better to be a part of beauty

for one instant and then cease to

exist than to exist forever

and never be a part of beauty

our attitude toward life

is come easy go easy

we are like human beings

used to be before they became

too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him

out of his philosophy

he went and immolated himself

on a patent cigar lighter

i do not agree with him

myself i would rather have

half the happiness and twice

the longevity

but at the same time i wish

there was something i wanted

as badly as he wanted to fry himself.

In Which I Shamelessly Plug My Friends

I spent yesterday recording with some friends of mine who comprise a band called Cliudan. They are of the Celtic genre, broadly speaking, and describe themselves as "driven progressive Celtic," which is a pretty good description once you've heard them, but probably doesn't mean much to those who haven't. Think traditionally-influenced melodies and the storytelling sensibility common to Celtic music, but with an earthy, percussion-driven intensity. Anyway, you should pop over and listen to them. Or you could wait until this album comes out next month and hear my small contribution, but why wait?

Recording is an interesting process of thinking you have everything all worked out, and then watching as things come together in quite a different way than you had planned. In this case, it was made more interesting by the fact that, although we have talked music a lot, we had never played together before, and two of them hadn't really ever heard me sing. How you get invited to sing on an album with people who have never heard you, I don't know, except that they must have taken me at my word that I can sing. I got to do one of my favorite things, which is figure out harmonies on the fly to songs I've never heard before. It all worked out shockingly well, and I ended up doing harmonies for four songs instead of the planned two. I can't wait to hear how it comes out.

All of this was helped considerably by having Glenn Forrester doing the recording and mixing. I guess I should wait and hear the final results before giving an unabashed plug, but he was pretty amazing to work with. I've worked with several sound engineers before, and none of them have had the ear that he does, or been so adept at making sure we have all the necessary tracks, done right, without over-managing the music or making everyone do eight gazillion takes.

So, this process has me thinking about those of us who are part-time artists of one sort or another, who squeeze our creating into the small spaces between "real life." I am fortunate to have a vocation that I also love, and that I would never give up for music, but I think most of us have fleeting thoughts of running off to devote ourselves to our art, and I was definitely in that zone yesterday.

I am not a poet. I write music, but that is not quite the same thing, and my brain is far too literal and linear to be truly poetic. But today, while searching for fodder for the wedding and vespers service I am doing this evening, I found this poem, which reminded me of daydreaming artists (and the potential pitfalls of being or working with one).

"To a Frustrated Poet" by R.J. Ellmann

This is to say

I know

You wish you were in the woods,

Living the poet life,

Not here at a formica topped table

In a meeting about perceived inequalities in the benefits and

allowances offered to employees of this college,

And I too wish you were in the woods,

Because it's no fun having a frustrated poet

In the Dept. of Human Resources, believe me.

In the poems of yours that I've read, you seem ever intelligent

and decent and patient in a way

Not evident to us in this office,

And so, knowing how poets can make a feast out of trouble,

Raising flowers in a bed of drunkenness, divorce, despair,

I give you this check representing two weeks' wages

And ask you to clean out your desk today

And go home

And write a poem

With a real frog in it

And plums from the refrigerator,

So sweet and so cold.

Save the Ta-tas

I don't want to ruin anyone's fun, really I don't. I don't want to be that person who makes a big issue over something that was intended to be harmless - and I am pretty sure this was intended to be not only harmless but positive. However...

Yesterday as I figured out what was going on with all the women on Facebook posting colors in their status updates, I first thought, "That's kind of cute." But then the colors started expanding into fabric descriptions: "silky," "lacy." If the chain message had ever been a secret amongst the females of Facebook, it couldn't have stayed one for long with all the postings of "nude," "natural," and "hanging free!"

Now, I've read other comments about the lack of modesty displayed. I don't fall into that camp. I'm pretty sure the obsession with breasts in our culture is related to our repressed Victorian attitude about them, and I do not believe that telling someone the color of my bra is inherently scandalous, or even immodest. However, I was a little disturbed by the updates that had more to do with the titillation factor than the cause of curing a disease. Are campaigns like this and "Save the Ta-tas" effective at getting attention? Sure. But for what purpose? "Save the Ta-tas" does actually go the extra step and use that attention to raise awareness about breast cancer and research toward a cure. This Facebook thing has yet to go there. Even if it does eventually explicitly connect with breast cancer awareness, however, it still gives the impression that we are most concerned about this particular form of cancer, not because it kills people, but because it might diminish women's sex appeal. Because death is but a small concern if our breasts are intact (and firm and perky besides).

I didn't play the game, although I'll happily tell you the color of my bra (beige...not very titillating). I just have no desire to be reduced from a person to a body part - or even two body parts - even for the cause of curing cancer. Also, I don't find cutesy games involving "secrets" from half of the population you're allegedly trying to reach to be a particularly effective way to raise awareness.

In honor of breasts everywhere, and the women of whom they are but a small part, today's poem comes from the Song of Songs (JPS translation) chapter 7.

Turn back, turn back,

O maid of Shulem!

Turn back, turn back,

That we may gaze upon you.

"Why will you gaze at the Shulammite

In the Mahanaim dance?"

How lovely are your feet in sandals,

O daughter of nobles!

Your rounded thighs are like jewels,

The work of a master's hand.

Your navel is like a round goblet -

Let mixed wine not be lacking! -

Your belly like a heap of wheat

Hedged about with lilies.

Your breasts are like two fawns,

Twins of a gazelle.

Your neck is like a tower of ivory,

Your eyes like pools in Heshbon

By the gate of Bath-rabbim,

Your nose like the Lebanon tower

That faces toward Damascus.

The head upon you is like crimson wool,

The looks of your head are like purple -

A king is held captive in the tresses.

How fair you are, how beautiful!

O Love, with all its rapture!

Your stately form is like the palm,

Your breasts are like clusters.

I say: Let me climb the palm,

Let me take hold of its branches;

Let your breasts be like clusters of grapes,

Your breath like the fragrance of apples,

And your mouth like choicest wine.

"Let it flow to my beloved as new wine

Gliding over the lips of sleepers."

Kindness to Snails

It's funny how your blog traffic picks up when you actually post things. Hello, readers, whomever you may be. I'm taking a brief break in the midst of a very long, very busy - but very productive, hooray! - day to try to keep up this discipline.

I have worked with youth pretty much since, well, since I was still one myself, and have often felt the uneasy gap between the hard truth of what is strictly reality, and the way I hope young people will be able to see the world as long as they possibly can. Not that I want to shelter kids from clarity about the world...but I do want to encourage the best possibilities within them, which sometimes means they don't have to be told all the gory details of adult life. For example, the minute they start really thinking about the fact that my time with them is my job, my credibility is shot. I spend quite a bit of time in the gap, wondering about how to be honest with the youth I work with, while holding the fact that they are still youth with honor and care. Anyway, I think that is why "For a Five-Year-Old" by Fleur Adcock is one of my favorite poems ever:

A snail is climbing up the window-sill

into your room, after a night of rain.

You call me in to see, and I explain

that it would be unkind to leave it there;

it might crawl to the floor; we must take care

that no one squashes it. You understand,

and carry it outside, with careful hand,

to eat a daffodil.

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails:

your gentleness is moulded still by words

from me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,

from me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayed

your closest relatives, and who purveyed

the harshest kind of truth to many another.

But that is how things are: I am your mother,

and we are kind to snails.

Jesus Wants to Save Christians

In the continued Quest to Be a Better Stacey, today I picked up a book that I ordered ages ago and haven't yet read, which is completely against my personal conviction that books are meant to be read and that if you're not going to read them, you have no business owning them. I may be revising my opinion, however, because Jesus Wants to Save Christians is giving me a headache. Dear Rob Bell, I think you have some marvelous things to say, and your way of presenting biblical narrative is pretty remarkable,

but if you don't

stop writing your books

like this

I may be forced

to come to Michigan

and hurl them at your head.

If you've read any Rob Bell, you know what I'm talking about. There is this thing called a paragraph with which I wish he would get better acquainted. Perhaps this is an attempt to keep the attention of the ADD generation whose communication happens almost entirely in the 140 characters or less world of Twitter, Facebook, and text messages. I live a fair amount of my life in that world too, but sometimes it's nice to read something a little less frantic.

That said, the book has some interesting and challenging ideas, not necessarily new to me, but good reminders. Like, as Christians, how happy should we really be that the U.S. military is occupying a Middle Eastern country "until peace can be restored," when Jesus was a Middle Eastern man who lived in an occupied country and was killed by a government that claimed it was trying to restore the peace by doing so? Not that I was actually happy about this to begin with, but I'm having a little situational cognitive dissonance over it at the moment. It also mentions the multi-billion dollar business of keeping us "safe," which has long bothered me. I'm not really sure what that air puffer in the airport is supposed to do, or why my tax dollars pay for it, or why I submit to it when I don't know what good it does and have ethical questions about the company that produces it and thus makes a ton of money off of the fear of the American people. Probably because I would rather avoid the full-body pat down or missing my plane than make a fuss. Fuss is just so inconvenient.

More broadly, it is a book about the Church as an exiled people, strangers in a strange land. Which makes one wonder if we are strange enough (yes, I know, most of you think I am already plenty strange).

And so, in the spirit of cultural resistance, the poem for today is "1991 - I" by Wendell Berry.

The year begins with war.

Our bombs fall day and night,

Hour after hour, by death

Abroad appeasing wrath,

Folly, and greed at home.

Upon our giddy tower

We'd oversway the world.

Our hate comes down to kill

Those whom we do not see,

For we have given up

Our sight to those in power

And to machines, and now

Are blind to all the world.

This is a nation where

No lovely thing can last.

We trample, gouge, and blast;

The people leave the land;

The land flows to the sea.

Fine men and women die,

The fine old houses fall,

The fine old trees come down;

Highway and shopping mall

Still guarantee the right

And liberty to be

A peaceful murderer,

A murderous worshipper,

A slender glutton. Forgiving

No enemy, forgiven

By none, we live the death

Of liberty, become

What we have feared to be.

Food

It's certainly not news to anyone that the holidays are generally bad for our waistlines, but this year has been a bit much. You know when you buy a skirt halfway through December and have to worry about whether it will fit by New Year's Eve, you're in trouble. Mind you, it's not like I go out and buy junk food with which to stuff my face. And yet, on my desk at this moment are: two dozen homemade shortbread cookies, a bowl full of holiday-wrapped candy, a gift bag of granola, a tin of assorted cookies and fudge, and a shipped assortment of something I know is food and therefore am afraid to open. In addition to the actual food I've received this year, I also got a number of gift cards - all to restaurants.

I could interpret this one of two ways:

1) I have grown so fat that people assume I will not enjoy anything so much as more food; or,

2) I am not yet fat but people are conspiring to make me so.

Either way, kind of disturbing.

Of course, it doesn't help that I've become a lazy, cold-fearing slug who hasn't gone running in a month. I am so averse to being outside right now that I briefly considered buying the AbCircle, which may be one of the most absurd exercise devices I've ever seen. I would have bought it, too, if it had really been only $14.95, as advertised. The nearly $40 shipping and handling charges must be in the small print on the commercial. So, no circling abs for me, which is unfortunate, because if I ab-circled, I might be able to justify another one of the shortbread cookies that is staring at me.

On that note, a poem for the day.

"The Goose" by Muriel Spark

Do you want to know why I am alive today?

I will tell you.

Early on, during the food shortage,

Some of us were miraculously presented

Each with a goose that laid a golden egg.

Myself, I killed the cackling thing and I ate it.

Alas, many and many of the other recipients

Died of gold-dust poisoning.

The Quest to Be a Better Blogger

You see, I want a lot.
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each ascent.

So many are alive who don’t seem to care.
Casual, easy, they move in the world
as though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it’s not too late
to open your depths by plunging into them
and drink in the life
that reveals itself quietly there.

~Rainier Maria Rilke (as translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)

I'm not really a big New Year's Resolution person, but it seems as good a time as any to do something new. So, I have made the tiny resolution to be in this new year a bit closer to the person I'd like to be. To be more intentional about my daily decisions. To work smarter. To be healthier. To be a little more zen about the complicated, uncertain, sort-of-maybe-relationship in which I find myself, and a little less prone to snarky, mean comments in general. To read more poetry and books of substance. To write more, in music and words.

It's kind of a tall order.

Nonetheless, I kind of like the thought of reading more poetry, and my writing sorely needs some practice, so step one of Be A Better Stacey is to start posting more often here again. When I have nothing to write (and sometimes even when I do), I'll just share a poem that I like. Today we begin with Rilke. Speaking of which, this translation is quite a bit different than some of the others floating around. I prefer this translation, but it makes me want to read the original. Anyone know where I could find/order that? Off to Google I go...

P.S. - The internet is grand; I have found it here.