On our second date, you asked,
"Is this weird?"
I hadn't yet held your hand and I already knew
when we would break up
I said, "live for the moment"
and called you my temporary boyfriend
But three weeks is not enough
even for a speedy romance
and I still want to hold your hand,
sleep next to you under flannel sheets,
wrestle
three weeks ago,
I promised I'd leave you
three weeks ago,
I didn't think my heart would still be in my stomach
three weeks ago,
I wasn't dreaming of a picnic
after biking
sun kissing our kisses
I'm trying to let you go,
but the three weeks hold me here
memories
of footsteps in the sandy snow
thinking
if you could have only
been something more
what a perfect picture
Our last date--swimming
you coming back to my door
for one more goodbye kiss.
Maybe,
we should have known better.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Monday, December 24, 2012
Oozing Jazz
My friend Jason used to walk around Hope College's campus in the mid-90's with a portable tape cassette player in his coat pocket. An aficionado of jazz, he would literally have jazz oozing from his being. See, in that time, it was considered too rude to walk around campus with your ear buds plugged in to your ears and your mind unplugged from the world. (Well, it would have been headphones at that time.) Now, we are accustomed to that, but during those days, Jason greeted us with the beats and swings of jazz music.
I think this is where my love of jazz music began in so many different forms. However, when I love something, I'm not a good lover like some people are. I'm also a movie lover, yet I am not the kind of movie lover who can tell you the director and actors of every movie she has ever seen. In fact, I don't think I even really have a favorite movie. So many movies have made me cry, laugh, and even feel waves of appreciation through-out my being. These experiences I'm constantly in search of repeating through the media of movies. Sometimes, I wish; however, that I took the time to remember every Wes Anderson movie or that Magnolia films made this or that movie. I think it's part of being the Renaissance Girl that I am. I love many things and do many things, but I'm not sure I do any of them to any level of expertise.
Jazz is no different. If you asked me to name a famous jazz musician, I would not be able to. Still my love of jazz runs deeply within my soul for how it makes me feel when I experience it. I think so much of this is wrapped up in my early memories of listening to jazz. Jason is just one of those. At Hope, I studied English and creative writing. Our college hosted literary readings and often we were able to pull in some of the modern greats. I remember listening to Chaim Potok, Billy Collins, and Jim Harrison. Before any literary reading, the colleges jazz quartet entertained the waiting audience.
Most of our college days in Michigan were spent bundled in wool pea coats, hats, gloves, and knitted scarves as we scuttled from one class to the next. Night and dark came early. On nights of literary readings, we would walk the few extra blocks from our campus housing to the theater downtown, freezing in a way that kept us from saying more than a few words as we made the trek, but then always as soon as the warmth of the theater greeted our rosy cheeks, we were filled with a happiness that melted the cold away. I, personally, no longer felt that I was in a little suburb in Michigan, but instead in a small artsy theater some where in New York and probably in a time separate from the 90's. I just felt damn sophisticated. While, I listened to the jazz and learned from watching others clap for solos, I wrote poetry in a wrinkled and bent spiral bound notebook that I had stuffed in my pocket.
I wanted more and a college has a plethora of budding musicians, so I befriended music students and realized I was falling in love with watching one particular bassist's fingers strum the strings of his guitar. I followed him and his band to every one of their performances. I stopped writing poetry, just so I could watch those long fingers, particularly the way the top of each phallange seemed to have one extra joint that enabled such intricate movement. I'm pretty sure in my head I had a love affair with those fingers and the music that they created.
But then I left to Ireland for a semester, and I left those fingers behind. A new romance with jazz began that semester on Sunday afternoons, in the orange hues of oil lamps, at a pub, in downtown Galway. By the time my friends and I made it downtown to the King's Head Pub, we had already slept off our hangovers from the night before. If one of us was flush with funds, we had had a full Irish breakfast somewhere greasy and warm by 1 pm. If money was more dear, we ate Cheerios or I whipped together scrambled eggs for all my non-cooking friends: a spoiled rich girl from Boston, another rich girl from Italy, and a very fresh, still a child girl from the center of Ireland. Not quite ready to drink heavy Guiness by the time the afternoon had rolled around, but now clear of mind and with some sort of sustenance in our bodies, we found Bulmer's cider on ice to be particularly delicious. We sat more quietly than the night before, which often ended in drunken dancing at a disco, and just let the jazz of the live band wash over us. These moments, partially saved me from my homesickness. Right before I had left home, I had finally found a group of friends at school that stimulated both my mind and spirit. I missed those friends I had left behind and on lonely walks to nearby villages, I questioned my decision to leave the United States behind for the first semester of my senior year.
Thankfully, the homesickness didn't last. My cure came in the form of a tall Irish man from Cork who soon began to join me for the afternoons of Sunday jazz. He didn't dance, but our nights were still often spent up late with me just listening to him spout philosophy in his wonderful Irish accent. I idolized him and he became my world while I was in Ireland. He taught me to drink warm port and as the days grew cooler, we sat huddled together in any pub with the kind of music that acted like a knitted afghan for the attraction we had between us.
Later, after that relationship had already ended, I still associated jazz with romance and future boyfriends learned to use this to their advantage. Jazz always turned my mood toward affection.
My Pandora station this Christmas is Holiday Jazz and it's amazing how content I've been. Perhaps I identify with the way the music is arranged: a true showcase of individuality wrapped together with the uniqueness of others' to create a beat of music that brings out the individual and makes it something even greater.
I think this is where my love of jazz music began in so many different forms. However, when I love something, I'm not a good lover like some people are. I'm also a movie lover, yet I am not the kind of movie lover who can tell you the director and actors of every movie she has ever seen. In fact, I don't think I even really have a favorite movie. So many movies have made me cry, laugh, and even feel waves of appreciation through-out my being. These experiences I'm constantly in search of repeating through the media of movies. Sometimes, I wish; however, that I took the time to remember every Wes Anderson movie or that Magnolia films made this or that movie. I think it's part of being the Renaissance Girl that I am. I love many things and do many things, but I'm not sure I do any of them to any level of expertise.
Jazz is no different. If you asked me to name a famous jazz musician, I would not be able to. Still my love of jazz runs deeply within my soul for how it makes me feel when I experience it. I think so much of this is wrapped up in my early memories of listening to jazz. Jason is just one of those. At Hope, I studied English and creative writing. Our college hosted literary readings and often we were able to pull in some of the modern greats. I remember listening to Chaim Potok, Billy Collins, and Jim Harrison. Before any literary reading, the colleges jazz quartet entertained the waiting audience.
Most of our college days in Michigan were spent bundled in wool pea coats, hats, gloves, and knitted scarves as we scuttled from one class to the next. Night and dark came early. On nights of literary readings, we would walk the few extra blocks from our campus housing to the theater downtown, freezing in a way that kept us from saying more than a few words as we made the trek, but then always as soon as the warmth of the theater greeted our rosy cheeks, we were filled with a happiness that melted the cold away. I, personally, no longer felt that I was in a little suburb in Michigan, but instead in a small artsy theater some where in New York and probably in a time separate from the 90's. I just felt damn sophisticated. While, I listened to the jazz and learned from watching others clap for solos, I wrote poetry in a wrinkled and bent spiral bound notebook that I had stuffed in my pocket.
I wanted more and a college has a plethora of budding musicians, so I befriended music students and realized I was falling in love with watching one particular bassist's fingers strum the strings of his guitar. I followed him and his band to every one of their performances. I stopped writing poetry, just so I could watch those long fingers, particularly the way the top of each phallange seemed to have one extra joint that enabled such intricate movement. I'm pretty sure in my head I had a love affair with those fingers and the music that they created.
But then I left to Ireland for a semester, and I left those fingers behind. A new romance with jazz began that semester on Sunday afternoons, in the orange hues of oil lamps, at a pub, in downtown Galway. By the time my friends and I made it downtown to the King's Head Pub, we had already slept off our hangovers from the night before. If one of us was flush with funds, we had had a full Irish breakfast somewhere greasy and warm by 1 pm. If money was more dear, we ate Cheerios or I whipped together scrambled eggs for all my non-cooking friends: a spoiled rich girl from Boston, another rich girl from Italy, and a very fresh, still a child girl from the center of Ireland. Not quite ready to drink heavy Guiness by the time the afternoon had rolled around, but now clear of mind and with some sort of sustenance in our bodies, we found Bulmer's cider on ice to be particularly delicious. We sat more quietly than the night before, which often ended in drunken dancing at a disco, and just let the jazz of the live band wash over us. These moments, partially saved me from my homesickness. Right before I had left home, I had finally found a group of friends at school that stimulated both my mind and spirit. I missed those friends I had left behind and on lonely walks to nearby villages, I questioned my decision to leave the United States behind for the first semester of my senior year.
Thankfully, the homesickness didn't last. My cure came in the form of a tall Irish man from Cork who soon began to join me for the afternoons of Sunday jazz. He didn't dance, but our nights were still often spent up late with me just listening to him spout philosophy in his wonderful Irish accent. I idolized him and he became my world while I was in Ireland. He taught me to drink warm port and as the days grew cooler, we sat huddled together in any pub with the kind of music that acted like a knitted afghan for the attraction we had between us.
Later, after that relationship had already ended, I still associated jazz with romance and future boyfriends learned to use this to their advantage. Jazz always turned my mood toward affection.
My Pandora station this Christmas is Holiday Jazz and it's amazing how content I've been. Perhaps I identify with the way the music is arranged: a true showcase of individuality wrapped together with the uniqueness of others' to create a beat of music that brings out the individual and makes it something even greater.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Oxbow Inspiration
If you've never been to Oxbow, a summer camp for artists located in Saugatuck, you certainly must go sometime. It's a magical place. Just now, in my search for a chapter of my book that I wanted to work on, I stumbled across some notes for poems that I had jotted down one afternoon at Oxbow a few years back. I think I need a second visit to actually craft these into more concise poems.
Sweeping the Porch
Artists pleasantly
ignore the gentle sweep of her broom
slide, lift, sweep
slide, lift, sweep.
She dances their
furniture over this ancient wooden floor.
Their giggles do not
stir her from her task,
the song is in her
head,
the rhythm is in her
broom.
It knows the dance that
moves her across the floor.
Her fingers rest in these
lightened grooves—
microscopic
fingerprints of paint left on generations of hands.
Her memories retire and
join others
already dancing in
every fiber
of this worn wooden
broom.
The same broom,
the same dance,
a similar story,
almost the same rhythm,
swish, sweep, and
clunk.
_____________ ________________________________________________________________________
Artists do not wear
tennis shoes.
Ballet slippers,
flip flops,
barefeet,
converse high tops,
rolled over, maybe.
Paint is better cold
between the toes.
She wears it black and
trailing down her leg
watery icing snakes
around her calf
a sophisticated
temporary tattoo.
It’s not her art,
only an infant of her
creation.
She tips toes to the
lunch hall, leather sandals in hand.
The paint dries under
her arches
miniscule cracks spread
with each movement.
NOT DONE….NOT SURE WHAT
TO DO WITH IT
_____________________________________________________________________________________
A detour from the trail
to the crow’s nest will lead to the chicken coop.
More roosters than
chickens
They warble and coo
almost like a cat’s meow.
One egg rests outside
the window of the coop.
The window is covered
in chicken wire.
How did the egg get
there?
How long has it been
there?
_____________________________________________________________________________________
These goggles here
hanging on the wooden bench
are for looking at
white painted tree branches.
See nature and industry
collide.
One would think, from
first glance, these relics are simple paper birch branches.
Don’t be fooled.
Feel the texture.
Look beyond the surface.
The bark reveals their
disguise.
This pile rests
decorated and discarded
with only the black
locust tree
alive and standing
guard.
Even so, the rain will
trickle
and drip through these
compound leaves.
Occasionally showers
will pour through branches and run along the bark.
The bright white paint
will fade and yellow.
A tiny mushroom will
find a home.
Then another,
and another,
will set up camp at
this forgotten oasis.
Ants and worms will
crawl in the cracks of each branch’s virginal costume.
Soon only flecks of
paint will dot this grassy soil.
But until the circus
of events begins—
The black ant will
wander confused
over the vast network
of these white highways.
(Do you see him? Use
the goggles and look.)
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Chris Dombrowski, Wendell Berry, and THE SUN
The other day, I received an advert to re-subscribe to the literary magazine, The Sun. This was my first literary magazine and remains my time-honored favorite, due its progressive selection of though-provoking pieces of poetry, short story, and essay. What stood out to me, however, was a haunting name amongst the samples pieces of writing meant to entice me to subscribe to their magazine again (which in all likelihood I will probably do very soon). The name is Chris Dombrowski. I went to Hope College with Chris. I don't remember if I really knew him all that well. I believe he was a few years ahead of me. At the time, I'm not even sure that I knew he was a writing student. Yet, I'm floored every time I see his name out in the world, not just in the writing world, but in the general, slightly marginal, public world. If I was a writer, he would be a contemporary of mine. I am amazed to see someone so close to my tiny world out there writing in the much larger, real world. In fact, his writing shares the same postcard space with the likes of Wendell Berry. Now, that is an accomplishment.
Seeing Chris's writing used as an enticement for me to buy a literary magazine has the potential to put me in a funk. Why is this not my name and my writing here? But then again, I still struggle with the concept of calling myself a writer. I never really set out to become a writer. I had no plans to study creative writing in school. In fact, I had initially planned on being a nurse. My perfectionism had the better of me in that pursuit and I settled on teaching, my back-up plan that continues to be quite fulfilling. But two incidents prompted me to add creative writing to my list of academic pursuits. At Hope College, in Holland, Michigan, you are required to pursue a liberal arts course of study in addition to your major field of study. So the fall of my junior year, I found myself in Writing for Elementary Teachers, well on my way to clicking off the required credits toward my degree. Heather Sellers taught this class and from the first day she became an inspiration to me.
As we introduced ourselves to the class, she told us to share what we would do on a typical Saturday morning. Almost the entire class spook about how they just "hung out with their friends" or "recovered from the night before." Instead, I shared that it was the one day of the week I would wake without my alarm clock. If time was on my side, I'd ride my bicycle to the Farmer's Market and wander up and down the aisles looking for the perfect vegetables to make into my lunch all the while trying to avoid the "Bread Nazi" and his pushy tactics. I would then spend the rest of the day studying or working one of my many part time jobs. She called me out as the one person in the class who actually gave her some interesting information. For me, it was just natural to tell her what I really did. Throughout that semester, her constant encouragement and at some points relentless badgering pushed me toward adding the creative writing minor. Mind you, I was a junior already, I didn't see the feasibility of adding more credit requirements to an already full plate of English, Elementary Education, and General Science. In the long run, the General Science minor ended up suffering the wrath of my creative writing pursuits. Don't fret, though, I finished it later when I returned to grad school.
The other incident of writing inspiration came from Jack Ridl, also a Hope professor. I had known Jack since I was in high school, thanks to a short May-December relationship I had had with one of his students when he was a college senior and I was a high school junior. Jack knew of my interest in writing, thanks to the class Encounter with the Arts, another liberal arts requirement. We were avid correspondents through the journal that was required for the class. Well, one chilly winter day, I was just walking along the sidewalk back to my apartment, when a slightly beat up European car stopped in its tracks alongside me. I believe this must have been my senior year. Stepping out of his car, Jack approached me with the question, "What do you think you're doing?" I was thoroughly confused. I was walking and I said as much.
"No," he replied, "what are you doing taking the beginning poetry class?"
"What do you mean? Am I not good enough?"
"Quite the opposite, young lady!" He admonished.
"Oh, it's the only one that fits into my schedule." It was always really hard to get a class with Jack. They filled up so quickly; he is an amazing soul, teacher, and man. People are just drawn to him. "I was lucky to even get into that class."
"Are you sure you can't make the intermediate class work?"
I just couldn't, but it didn't matter. That vote of confidence in my writing was what finally made me think that one day I just might become a writer. I've been writing ever since college off and on for the past eighteen years, but I'm still not sure that I would call myself a writer. In high school, I would write about a large apothecary style jar that would sit on my desk waiting to collect words, but at that time it felt so empty. In my head, I believed that if only I could fill that jar, then maybe I could be a writer. Now, I don't sense the emptiness of that jar and I've had the experiences to provide writing material for another lifetime, and yet, I still don't feel that I'm a writer. Is it publishing that makes one a writer? Is that what has put Chris Dombrowski in the same playing field as Wendell Berry? I'm not sure. For me, I feel that I have three jars now on my desk. One filled with amazing words. Another overflowing with experiences that have touched me, changed me, and continue to form me. And lastly another, one that is more ethereal, and in this jar I must take my words and my experiences, place them in the jar bits at a time in a way that finds meaning and depth that I can then convey to a reader. Only then when I master the use of this jar, will I truly be a writer.
Seeing Chris's writing used as an enticement for me to buy a literary magazine has the potential to put me in a funk. Why is this not my name and my writing here? But then again, I still struggle with the concept of calling myself a writer. I never really set out to become a writer. I had no plans to study creative writing in school. In fact, I had initially planned on being a nurse. My perfectionism had the better of me in that pursuit and I settled on teaching, my back-up plan that continues to be quite fulfilling. But two incidents prompted me to add creative writing to my list of academic pursuits. At Hope College, in Holland, Michigan, you are required to pursue a liberal arts course of study in addition to your major field of study. So the fall of my junior year, I found myself in Writing for Elementary Teachers, well on my way to clicking off the required credits toward my degree. Heather Sellers taught this class and from the first day she became an inspiration to me.
As we introduced ourselves to the class, she told us to share what we would do on a typical Saturday morning. Almost the entire class spook about how they just "hung out with their friends" or "recovered from the night before." Instead, I shared that it was the one day of the week I would wake without my alarm clock. If time was on my side, I'd ride my bicycle to the Farmer's Market and wander up and down the aisles looking for the perfect vegetables to make into my lunch all the while trying to avoid the "Bread Nazi" and his pushy tactics. I would then spend the rest of the day studying or working one of my many part time jobs. She called me out as the one person in the class who actually gave her some interesting information. For me, it was just natural to tell her what I really did. Throughout that semester, her constant encouragement and at some points relentless badgering pushed me toward adding the creative writing minor. Mind you, I was a junior already, I didn't see the feasibility of adding more credit requirements to an already full plate of English, Elementary Education, and General Science. In the long run, the General Science minor ended up suffering the wrath of my creative writing pursuits. Don't fret, though, I finished it later when I returned to grad school.
The other incident of writing inspiration came from Jack Ridl, also a Hope professor. I had known Jack since I was in high school, thanks to a short May-December relationship I had had with one of his students when he was a college senior and I was a high school junior. Jack knew of my interest in writing, thanks to the class Encounter with the Arts, another liberal arts requirement. We were avid correspondents through the journal that was required for the class. Well, one chilly winter day, I was just walking along the sidewalk back to my apartment, when a slightly beat up European car stopped in its tracks alongside me. I believe this must have been my senior year. Stepping out of his car, Jack approached me with the question, "What do you think you're doing?" I was thoroughly confused. I was walking and I said as much.
"No," he replied, "what are you doing taking the beginning poetry class?"
"What do you mean? Am I not good enough?"
"Quite the opposite, young lady!" He admonished.
"Oh, it's the only one that fits into my schedule." It was always really hard to get a class with Jack. They filled up so quickly; he is an amazing soul, teacher, and man. People are just drawn to him. "I was lucky to even get into that class."
"Are you sure you can't make the intermediate class work?"
I just couldn't, but it didn't matter. That vote of confidence in my writing was what finally made me think that one day I just might become a writer. I've been writing ever since college off and on for the past eighteen years, but I'm still not sure that I would call myself a writer. In high school, I would write about a large apothecary style jar that would sit on my desk waiting to collect words, but at that time it felt so empty. In my head, I believed that if only I could fill that jar, then maybe I could be a writer. Now, I don't sense the emptiness of that jar and I've had the experiences to provide writing material for another lifetime, and yet, I still don't feel that I'm a writer. Is it publishing that makes one a writer? Is that what has put Chris Dombrowski in the same playing field as Wendell Berry? I'm not sure. For me, I feel that I have three jars now on my desk. One filled with amazing words. Another overflowing with experiences that have touched me, changed me, and continue to form me. And lastly another, one that is more ethereal, and in this jar I must take my words and my experiences, place them in the jar bits at a time in a way that finds meaning and depth that I can then convey to a reader. Only then when I master the use of this jar, will I truly be a writer.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Hawks and Patience
I'm pretty sure my totem animal is a hawk, but I'm rarely sure how to interpret the message God is sending me when I witness the presence of my totem. At various points in my life I seem to see hawks flying across my path on a nearly daily basis. Maybe this is just during a seasonal time of the year when they are more active, but it also seems to be at a time when there is potential for great change in my life. According to Native American spirituality, hawks are supposed to signal a connection with seeing the big picture through the way they soar above the sky or a connection to an all encompassing spirituality.
I can see the spiritual connection, as I've reaffirmed my beliefs and my steadfastness in believing that God is in all things and all religions. Despite this not being a popular view, I feel solid in my faith and right about how I feel. Perhaps, the hawk sightings are to signify that my path is acceptable with God. He is showing me that my beliefs are still a way to honor Him.
However, I feel that the hawks are more related to a possible job prospect I'm waiting to hear back on. I'd really like to explore this possibility--a new avenue where I feel I could really utilize my talents and creativity. But I've also not wanted to be too disappointed if I don't get the job, so I've had a hard time praying about it. I've asked God to make happen when he knows is best for me--to lead me along the path that will give me the most fulfillment, but yet in my human heart I want the job. What is the hawk trying to tell me in relation to this situation? What is the bigger picture? What should I be distancing myself from to see all the details? As I ponder these questions, I incessantly check my email and my voicemail waiting to hear an answer to what path my life will take in the next few weeks and perhaps for several years into the future. I move forward expecting no change from the current path, but harbor this little energy of excitement in my gut for new opportunities and new challenges.
The waiting is so hard. We want things to happen on our schedules. But like life, God doesn't work that way. This earthly waiting, just to find out if my career path will change, is so similar to how we must wait for miracles in our lives. Nothing is ever cut and dry and everything is an opportunity to bring us closer to God. If I had known my answer the day after the interview, would I have spent as much time this past week in prayer? Would I have noticed the hawks? Would I have asked God to help me see the bigger picture for my life? Would I have thanked Him as much for all my blessings? Waiting slows us down, doesn't it? There is only so much moving forward that we can do while we wait and in that space, in that silence, we have time that is so rare to just be--the be with ourselves, those around us, and the universe. I am disciplining myself to not pray for the waiting to be over. And this is the hardest thing for me to do, but instead I'm pushing myself to pray for God to reveal to me the wisdom to discover the best path for myself at this time in my life. I'm praying to make the most of whatever path I find myself on and thanking God for the security of knowing either way, I'll have a pretty awesome path, because of my love of God and His love for me.
I can see the spiritual connection, as I've reaffirmed my beliefs and my steadfastness in believing that God is in all things and all religions. Despite this not being a popular view, I feel solid in my faith and right about how I feel. Perhaps, the hawk sightings are to signify that my path is acceptable with God. He is showing me that my beliefs are still a way to honor Him.
However, I feel that the hawks are more related to a possible job prospect I'm waiting to hear back on. I'd really like to explore this possibility--a new avenue where I feel I could really utilize my talents and creativity. But I've also not wanted to be too disappointed if I don't get the job, so I've had a hard time praying about it. I've asked God to make happen when he knows is best for me--to lead me along the path that will give me the most fulfillment, but yet in my human heart I want the job. What is the hawk trying to tell me in relation to this situation? What is the bigger picture? What should I be distancing myself from to see all the details? As I ponder these questions, I incessantly check my email and my voicemail waiting to hear an answer to what path my life will take in the next few weeks and perhaps for several years into the future. I move forward expecting no change from the current path, but harbor this little energy of excitement in my gut for new opportunities and new challenges.
The waiting is so hard. We want things to happen on our schedules. But like life, God doesn't work that way. This earthly waiting, just to find out if my career path will change, is so similar to how we must wait for miracles in our lives. Nothing is ever cut and dry and everything is an opportunity to bring us closer to God. If I had known my answer the day after the interview, would I have spent as much time this past week in prayer? Would I have noticed the hawks? Would I have asked God to help me see the bigger picture for my life? Would I have thanked Him as much for all my blessings? Waiting slows us down, doesn't it? There is only so much moving forward that we can do while we wait and in that space, in that silence, we have time that is so rare to just be--the be with ourselves, those around us, and the universe. I am disciplining myself to not pray for the waiting to be over. And this is the hardest thing for me to do, but instead I'm pushing myself to pray for God to reveal to me the wisdom to discover the best path for myself at this time in my life. I'm praying to make the most of whatever path I find myself on and thanking God for the security of knowing either way, I'll have a pretty awesome path, because of my love of God and His love for me.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Church Shopping and Today's Awesome Visualization
As I've mentioned before, I'm still wandering around my own personal spiritual path. A few quotes stand out to me as I forge ahead in this journey.
One: "Not all who wander are lost." This is from Lord of the Rings. And I am far from lost. In fact, I am more found in my wandering than I ever was when I was trying to conform to a certain set of dogmatic beliefs that represented so little of my heart. And yet, despite being found, I still wander searching for a spiritual home.
I don't believe a whole lot in the power of tarot cards; however, I do believe in the natural intuition of people who are drawn to reading tarot. I feel that even without the cards, these people could give you insight about who you are and where you've been. A good spiritual guide in relation to tarot or palm reading does not tell you where you are going. Very few people have that gift and it is my belief that if we try to figure out where we are going, God laughs and sends us in another direction. However, there are people I believe who can offer you insight in regards to the path you have been following and whether or not this is the right path in relation to who you are at this current position in space and time.
Almost two years ago now, I met with one of these such people. This women has the purest soul I know. In fact, I worry for her often, because she has the kind of soul that if she is not careful, others could easily suck the life from her. Thankfully, she is surrounded by people who shelter her soul and lead her to nurture it. In addition, she nurtures her own soul by caring for the souls of others. She did a reading for me and with any conversation you have with someone, certain parts hold with you and others fade away. What sticks with me from the reading was the focus on water. She said that my life has been very fluid--flowing and adapting from one situation to another and that I'm good at this. I can flow into a situation and be at home there, like water, molding to fit the environment around me. But like water, I can also easily flow out of situations and never truly be solid in one place for too long. She told me that she could sense my desire to have more stability in my life--to be more of a lake instead of a river.
I think this is partially why I desire a church home--that sense of some stability. And yet, the only true way to stop the flow of water is to freeze it or dam it up. And thus, I feel that this is also why I have trouble staying with anything too long. When life or my environment becomes too stable, like the river, I desire new "scenery." I must flow.
So, it's a dichotomy between my water-like nature--the nature that draws me along a wandering path and a longing in my heart to put some roots down. She was spot on in that someday sooner rather than later, I do want to learn how to put roots down. And it will have to be something I learn, because emotionally, it's not really something I have had a whole lot of experience with. This is probably why I'm scared of commitment.
Two: And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Anais Nin
Note: I read later that yellow light during meditation is associated with the Earth and groundedness. Very interesting...very interesting, indeed.
One: "Not all who wander are lost." This is from Lord of the Rings. And I am far from lost. In fact, I am more found in my wandering than I ever was when I was trying to conform to a certain set of dogmatic beliefs that represented so little of my heart. And yet, despite being found, I still wander searching for a spiritual home.
I don't believe a whole lot in the power of tarot cards; however, I do believe in the natural intuition of people who are drawn to reading tarot. I feel that even without the cards, these people could give you insight about who you are and where you've been. A good spiritual guide in relation to tarot or palm reading does not tell you where you are going. Very few people have that gift and it is my belief that if we try to figure out where we are going, God laughs and sends us in another direction. However, there are people I believe who can offer you insight in regards to the path you have been following and whether or not this is the right path in relation to who you are at this current position in space and time.
Almost two years ago now, I met with one of these such people. This women has the purest soul I know. In fact, I worry for her often, because she has the kind of soul that if she is not careful, others could easily suck the life from her. Thankfully, she is surrounded by people who shelter her soul and lead her to nurture it. In addition, she nurtures her own soul by caring for the souls of others. She did a reading for me and with any conversation you have with someone, certain parts hold with you and others fade away. What sticks with me from the reading was the focus on water. She said that my life has been very fluid--flowing and adapting from one situation to another and that I'm good at this. I can flow into a situation and be at home there, like water, molding to fit the environment around me. But like water, I can also easily flow out of situations and never truly be solid in one place for too long. She told me that she could sense my desire to have more stability in my life--to be more of a lake instead of a river.
I think this is partially why I desire a church home--that sense of some stability. And yet, the only true way to stop the flow of water is to freeze it or dam it up. And thus, I feel that this is also why I have trouble staying with anything too long. When life or my environment becomes too stable, like the river, I desire new "scenery." I must flow.
So, it's a dichotomy between my water-like nature--the nature that draws me along a wandering path and a longing in my heart to put some roots down. She was spot on in that someday sooner rather than later, I do want to learn how to put roots down. And it will have to be something I learn, because emotionally, it's not really something I have had a whole lot of experience with. This is probably why I'm scared of commitment.
Two: And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Anais Nin
I see this quote everywhere. My old "church" used it and the church I attended today had it typed in the bulletin. And strangely, while it is true for me, I can't say it really resonates for me. Yes, I did take a risk in turning away from the traditional church in order to embrace who I really am. Yes, I did lose in taking this risk, and yet, it was less painful than remaining in a lie. Still, I want a less ubiquitous quote to represent my process of spiritual awakening. Maybe, I'll have to create my own.
So, today, I found a church that still prays to God. Whether that God is a Christian God, The Great Spirit, or The Universe, it doesn't matter to this church in the same way it doesn't matter to me. This God we pray to is Love and there is more Love to be found in all religions than anything that makes us different. Still, I need to pray to a God. I've blogged about this before. I sense the Spirit in so many things that it is fundamentally impossible for me to deny the existence of God. And while this church I attended today didn't seem overwhelmingly welcoming (I may be over-reacting a bit. I was greeted at the door, but I sort of wanted a big hug and a "we're glad you're here!), I did feel perfectly at home in they way they worshiped.
In fact, it's been quite awhile since I've meditated. I've done brief sessions at the beach or lying in bed at night before I drift off to sleep, but nothing major. Also, there is something to be said for the power of a group meditation--all the energy can have a really powerful impact. At my old church, we always had a guided meditation time. This is a time when I usually tried to channel God's grace and energy down from heaven through my head and out through my heart to others. I live with the philosophy that "I'm third" in that God is first, others are second, and I'm third, so I always try to pray and offer healing love to others first. I start with people close to me and then spread out that love to the whole world in an ever enlarging circle.
This is what I tried to do today during the guided visualization and for part of it I was successful, but then a miraculous thing happened. As always, I could feel God's love and healing channeling down through me, but I couldn't channel it out of my heart to others. Instead, it cycled within me filling me with this glorious soft yellow warmth. I got to the point where many yoga students strive to get to--my mind was truly blank--nothing existed beyond this beautiful yellow wave of light in my mind's eye. But I stood on a cliff not knowing whether to jump into this bliss or try to channel the warm and loving feeling out to others who I know so desperately need God's touch in their lives. Yet, when I tried again to channel it, I just couldn't. In fact, it almost intensified the peaceful feeling inside of me. My breathing slowed and I completely relaxed into the comfort that God offered me in that moment. Even though I was relaxed, I was a bit scared too; scared that I would be in so much bliss I would actually forget to breathe. I focused on my breathing and floating so peacefully in the radiating light, fully accepting that while I wanted to offer healing to others, God knew at this time, it was me who needed the healing. I'm unsure of my malady, but I'm grateful for a Holy Spirit that can recognize our needs and surround us in such blissful healing.
It's been a long time since I've experienced this level of meditation. It's very rare for me to get to this state of empty mind meditation, as I'm so often focused on trying to send out healing energy to others. It is such a blissful state, though, that I do desire to visit this place again. I have experienced kundalini states several times, which is a much different level of meditation. I've found that I can reach these states of bliss if I cycle my spiritual energy in sort of a figure 8 pattern with another human nearby or with the Universe. These states of bliss can be a bit uncomfortable to experience in public as they often make the body twitch or even convulse. In Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert mentions coming out of the meditation cave completely disheveled and looking a mess from this sort of experience. I feel her pain. And while it such a heavenly experience, I've found that I repress it because of the embarrassing possibilities of experiencing this level of spiritual awaking around others. I've had to do that during Reiki work and also once during a guided meditation at my old "church." I think that is why today's experience was so magical. It was like having the kundalini experience but with all the energy focused between my heart and head rather than my whole body. Beyond the small fear of forgetting to breathe, I could float in that grace in an entirely peaceful and blissful state. Purely magical!
Note: I read later that yellow light during meditation is associated with the Earth and groundedness. Very interesting...very interesting, indeed.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Eating, Praying, and Loving through Michigan, but mostly Eating
I've been reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Originally, I had resisted reading this book, because so many women who seem fake and superficial were in love with the book and claiming how much they identified with the character. Then, when I found out that Julia Roberts would play the author in the movie adaptation, I was furthered turned off. I'm not sure why I don't like Julia Roberts. She's not a bad person; in fact, she's a pretty good actress. I think maybe she's just too perfect me. In fact, she's sort of the epitome of the women singing the praises on the book.
The book is about a women who comes into her own after being modernly repressed for a big part of her life. I just don't identify with that sort of self repressed suburban woman, especially when she blames others for her position and yet she is clearly making her own selfish choices. And then, I also am troubled even more by the women who can't stop singing their own personal praises. "I run this charity." "I'm on this board." "My child is this close to discovering the cure for cancer!" ETC! I'm glad that these strong women do these things and have kids who do awesome things. I'm proud of their efforts, but I think modesty is to be admired. These are the kind of women I have a hard time imagining actually have passionate sex or even take a bowel movement. They're just so flawless. They run, they have perfect fashion, their husbands are CEO's or poets. I may be projecting here, because I probably talk more about myself than I should, like these women, as well, but hopefully I don't. Anyway, I needed a book that would travel easily and so I grabbed the book as I was walking out my door on the way to the Traverse City Film Festival. Within just the first few pages of reading; however, I knew that I too would identify with the author's journey of self-actualization. I guess, as a woman, we all share those epiphany moments where we do change and become more of who we are. Maybe many of the women singing the praises for Eat, Pray, Love deep down really want to be more rough around the edges like me or escape from a repression that they through a series of snowballing choices have found themselves in.
I finished the Italy section of the book while in Traverse City. I won't go into the details of the book beyond a simple summary. Basically, in this section, Gilbert walks away from an unfulfilling relationship and spends four months devoted to pleasure and finding herself again. The culture of Italy speaks to slowness and savoring the good life. Meals are meant to be shared with good company, enjoying food that has been cooked slowly and with love. The company can be in the form of that shared with others or with your mind and perhaps a good book. My company is most often the second option. The author finds love for herself in savoring these daily feasts. My summer, with very little obligations, has been a picture of this. I wake slowly. I spend afternoons in the kitchen making new dishes. I bike or walk for hours with no particular place to go. So, naturally, upon finishing the pleasure section of her book, I was feeling the need to at least experience a small taste of the culinary pleasures of Italy.
After choosing an Italian restaurant in Traverse City, I realized I could sort of eat my way through Eat, Pray, Love in Michigan. She travels to Italy, India, and Indonesia. My budget prohibits me from traveling the globe right now, but I believe Michigan can offer me some mini-experiences similar to Gilbert's. So began my first chapter in my quest.
I wandered into Sorelinna, a new Italian restaurant in the downtown area; I didn't know it was new at the time. At first, I almost walked out. It was a very hot and muggy day and the first air of the restaurant that greeted me was a bit fishy and not much cooler than the outside. I wasn't put off by the smell, as I've found many restaurants with a fishy smell tend to smell that way because they are serving good seafood. As I was set on having a late and slow Italian lunch, I decided to stay. The hostess settled me into a comfortable booth in the bar area at a window. The bench even has a cozy throw pillow in case I wanted a nap.
A friendly, but slightly jumbled waiter/bartender took my drink order. I wanted sangria, since that's my current summer beverage love, but they didn't have it. I'm okay with that; it's a Spanish drink, not an Italian. So, instead, I settled on cranberry pomegranate martini. It arrived in a tall glass with an ice cold glass of water. I placed my order for a Caprese Salad and a rustic Italian sausage pasta dish and sat back to sip my cocktail while I waited for my food. The salad arrived and it was truly the highlight of my meal--fresh tomatoes, smooth buffalo mozzarella, and a great thick and flavorful balsamic vinegar. I realized later it was sans basil leaves, but they weren't even missed with the bed of arugula standing in as a green. So tasty.
The pasta dish was made of thick, seasoned, homemade noodles in a hearty tomato sauce. Unfortunately, it appealed so greatly to my senses, that I dug in before I thought of taking a picture. The sauce had a very herby flavor to it and was a tad salty, but still pretty good. It also was filled with a generous portion of homemade Italian sausage. I ate all of the savory chunks of meat, but left quite a bit of the pasta and sauce. I wasn't given bread, which I really think should be standard with any nicer meal, so I asked for some. Apparently, at lunch time, it only available upon request. I'm glad I asked, but that just seems a little cheap. Oh well, not to be bothered. The bread and an olive oil, herb, and cheese dipping sauce arrived with my glass of house Chianti, that was actually quite good and a dollar off due to it being "happy hour." Despite the saltiness of the herb blend (I would have used a salt free herb blend) I mopped up lots of the sauce and ate all of the bread. I nibbled on more of the pasta while I waited to place my dessert order.
That took quite awhile, as the bartender/waiter was engaged with two vocally drunk professionals having a very extended business lunch and some general mid-day in a restaurant kind of business. I pleasantly picked at my remaining food and eavesdropped.
Of course, when he finally did come around, I ordered the Tiramisu. In a sweet but slightly OH kind of way, he said, "Oh, you're going all out today!"
I replied, "Sure am!"
If it's possible to be disappointing and quite good at the same time, that was the tiramisu. It was actually quite delicious, but not really what I would expect. First it was served in a ramekin and filled to the top of the container. This made for a generous portion, but would prohibit the diner from adding a shot of Bailey's or other alcohol, which is quite common when eating tiramisu as an after dinner dessert. It also would have made the dessert less than ideal for sharing. In addition, it was more marscapone that coffee soaked lady fingers. Still the mascrapone layers melted in my mouth with a delicious creaminess and the coffee-flavored lady fingers melded nicely with the smooth cream.
All and all, it was a slow meal that I enjoyed greatly. While I did dine alone, I felt part of the restaurant. I ended up chatting with a few people at the bar and even the owner came over to ask me about my meal. I left feeling a sense of peace with my season of indulgence and pleasures coming to an end. I'm eager to enter my personal "India" where I'll be going back to school, not to devote myself to spiritual fulfillment and enlightenment, but a different kind of fulfillment. A fulfillment where I am serving others and watching young minds grow, find peace with each other, and face new challenges.
Gilbert wrote of how Americans often need to justify their relaxation--be told that they deserve a break. This was very true for me this summer. I felt guilty doing nothing--sleeping in, wandering about the house putting things away slowly rather than in a rush to move on to the next task... At times, I would feel even depressed because I had nothing of purpose I had to do. But this summer helped me remember that you don't always have to be doing something. Sometimes you can just sit and be. Stop and listen...I remember a quote that I heard once, although I don't remember who said it and am surely not quoting it word for word..."no need to travel anywhere, though my imagination, I can travel the world." I would prefer to travel the world; however, for now I will settle for food, thought, and words to take me to all the places I long to be.
The book is about a women who comes into her own after being modernly repressed for a big part of her life. I just don't identify with that sort of self repressed suburban woman, especially when she blames others for her position and yet she is clearly making her own selfish choices. And then, I also am troubled even more by the women who can't stop singing their own personal praises. "I run this charity." "I'm on this board." "My child is this close to discovering the cure for cancer!" ETC! I'm glad that these strong women do these things and have kids who do awesome things. I'm proud of their efforts, but I think modesty is to be admired. These are the kind of women I have a hard time imagining actually have passionate sex or even take a bowel movement. They're just so flawless. They run, they have perfect fashion, their husbands are CEO's or poets. I may be projecting here, because I probably talk more about myself than I should, like these women, as well, but hopefully I don't. Anyway, I needed a book that would travel easily and so I grabbed the book as I was walking out my door on the way to the Traverse City Film Festival. Within just the first few pages of reading; however, I knew that I too would identify with the author's journey of self-actualization. I guess, as a woman, we all share those epiphany moments where we do change and become more of who we are. Maybe many of the women singing the praises for Eat, Pray, Love deep down really want to be more rough around the edges like me or escape from a repression that they through a series of snowballing choices have found themselves in.
I finished the Italy section of the book while in Traverse City. I won't go into the details of the book beyond a simple summary. Basically, in this section, Gilbert walks away from an unfulfilling relationship and spends four months devoted to pleasure and finding herself again. The culture of Italy speaks to slowness and savoring the good life. Meals are meant to be shared with good company, enjoying food that has been cooked slowly and with love. The company can be in the form of that shared with others or with your mind and perhaps a good book. My company is most often the second option. The author finds love for herself in savoring these daily feasts. My summer, with very little obligations, has been a picture of this. I wake slowly. I spend afternoons in the kitchen making new dishes. I bike or walk for hours with no particular place to go. So, naturally, upon finishing the pleasure section of her book, I was feeling the need to at least experience a small taste of the culinary pleasures of Italy.
After choosing an Italian restaurant in Traverse City, I realized I could sort of eat my way through Eat, Pray, Love in Michigan. She travels to Italy, India, and Indonesia. My budget prohibits me from traveling the globe right now, but I believe Michigan can offer me some mini-experiences similar to Gilbert's. So began my first chapter in my quest.
I wandered into Sorelinna, a new Italian restaurant in the downtown area; I didn't know it was new at the time. At first, I almost walked out. It was a very hot and muggy day and the first air of the restaurant that greeted me was a bit fishy and not much cooler than the outside. I wasn't put off by the smell, as I've found many restaurants with a fishy smell tend to smell that way because they are serving good seafood. As I was set on having a late and slow Italian lunch, I decided to stay. The hostess settled me into a comfortable booth in the bar area at a window. The bench even has a cozy throw pillow in case I wanted a nap.
A friendly, but slightly jumbled waiter/bartender took my drink order. I wanted sangria, since that's my current summer beverage love, but they didn't have it. I'm okay with that; it's a Spanish drink, not an Italian. So, instead, I settled on cranberry pomegranate martini. It arrived in a tall glass with an ice cold glass of water. I placed my order for a Caprese Salad and a rustic Italian sausage pasta dish and sat back to sip my cocktail while I waited for my food. The salad arrived and it was truly the highlight of my meal--fresh tomatoes, smooth buffalo mozzarella, and a great thick and flavorful balsamic vinegar. I realized later it was sans basil leaves, but they weren't even missed with the bed of arugula standing in as a green. So tasty.
That took quite awhile, as the bartender/waiter was engaged with two vocally drunk professionals having a very extended business lunch and some general mid-day in a restaurant kind of business. I pleasantly picked at my remaining food and eavesdropped.
Of course, when he finally did come around, I ordered the Tiramisu. In a sweet but slightly OH kind of way, he said, "Oh, you're going all out today!"
I replied, "Sure am!"
If it's possible to be disappointing and quite good at the same time, that was the tiramisu. It was actually quite delicious, but not really what I would expect. First it was served in a ramekin and filled to the top of the container. This made for a generous portion, but would prohibit the diner from adding a shot of Bailey's or other alcohol, which is quite common when eating tiramisu as an after dinner dessert. It also would have made the dessert less than ideal for sharing. In addition, it was more marscapone that coffee soaked lady fingers. Still the mascrapone layers melted in my mouth with a delicious creaminess and the coffee-flavored lady fingers melded nicely with the smooth cream.
All and all, it was a slow meal that I enjoyed greatly. While I did dine alone, I felt part of the restaurant. I ended up chatting with a few people at the bar and even the owner came over to ask me about my meal. I left feeling a sense of peace with my season of indulgence and pleasures coming to an end. I'm eager to enter my personal "India" where I'll be going back to school, not to devote myself to spiritual fulfillment and enlightenment, but a different kind of fulfillment. A fulfillment where I am serving others and watching young minds grow, find peace with each other, and face new challenges.
Gilbert wrote of how Americans often need to justify their relaxation--be told that they deserve a break. This was very true for me this summer. I felt guilty doing nothing--sleeping in, wandering about the house putting things away slowly rather than in a rush to move on to the next task... At times, I would feel even depressed because I had nothing of purpose I had to do. But this summer helped me remember that you don't always have to be doing something. Sometimes you can just sit and be. Stop and listen...I remember a quote that I heard once, although I don't remember who said it and am surely not quoting it word for word..."no need to travel anywhere, though my imagination, I can travel the world." I would prefer to travel the world; however, for now I will settle for food, thought, and words to take me to all the places I long to be.
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