S.A. Journal

I’m having a tough time in my Spiritual Autobiography class.  I’m not exactly sure what I was thinking.  (Actually, I do know what I was thinking.  It was something foolish like, “Yeah.  I’m ready to revisit this.”  That was a bit of a miscalculation on my part.) 

Since returning to school this past September, I haven’t had too many cases of anxiously staring at a blank white screen, but the number has definitely gone up in recent weeks.  I look back at the old blog posts and think that things would have aligned much more nicely had I taken this class a few years ago, when writing about my spiritual life was what I did for fun.

Now… “Meh” would be the most accurate term for how I feel about trying to find good words for the particular place I’m at in my journey.  It’s one thing to fling my thoughts out into cyberspace, allowing them to be read by whoever cares to visit more than once.  It’s quite another to be vulnerable on the page, and then sit in an arbitrarily selected workshopping group, nervously reading out loud to three or four blank faces who may or may not have any idea what it is I’m talking about.  Some kinds of hangups only make sense to those who have been there themselves, at least, I suspect this is the case most of the time.

Meh, indeed.

When I mentioned to Daniel that I was going to be taking a Spiritual Autobiography class, he couldn’t have been more pleased. “Let me know when the book’s coming out,” he quipped.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that.  I haven’t even figured out which way is up yet when it comes to all of this,” I said. “It’s all… messy…” I said, trailing off into defeated silence. Over the last few years, “messy” has become a catch-all term for what’s left of the faith I used to know.  (Perhaps you’ve noticed.) 

“Ah. There’s your title. ‘Which Way’s Up’ seems like a great place to start.”

I wonder if he’s always been this comfortable with uncertainty. It very nearly makes me want to slap him. Then again, it’s nice to have someone in your life I can tell all the horrible things I think sometimes. He never cringes, much as I would expect a pastor to.  I told him once that I wasn’t sure if I was really a Christian anymore.  The conversation continued no differently than if I had told him that I like pepperoni pizza.

I love him for this.  It’s this kind of permission that helps me keep trying to find a place for faith in my life — somewhere I can be a thinking person and a graced one.

Still… I’m not quite sure what to say.  At 27, I haven’t come close to anything resembling a landing place yet.  An autobiography of any kind, much less a spiritual one, seems like an exercise in futility, an exercise in ascribing significance to events as they’re happening.  I don’t have a good lens for this yet.  I haven’t really moved past that moment of finding myself on the ground, looking around to see who pulled the carpet out from underneath me.  

I’m not sure how to.

Messy

I’m having a tough time in my Spiritual Autobiography class.  I’m not exactly sure what I was thinking.  (Actually, I do know what I was thinking.  It was something foolish like, “Yeah.  I’m ready to revisit this.”  That was a bit of a miscalculation on my part.) 

Since returning to school this past September, I haven’t had too many cases of anxiously staring at a blank white screen, but the number has definitely gone up in recent weeks.  I look back at the old blog posts and think that things would have aligned much more nicely had I taken this class a few years ago, when writing about my spiritual life was what I did for fun.

Now… “Meh” would be the most accurate term for how I feel about trying to find good words for the particular place I’m at in my journey.  It’s one thing to fling my thoughts out into cyberspace, allowing them to be read by whoever cares to visit more than once.  It’s quite another to be vulnerable on the page, and then sit in an arbitrarily selected workshopping group, nervously reading out loud to three or four blank faces who may or may not have any idea what it is I’m talking about.  Some kinds of hangups only make sense to those who have been there themselves, at least, I suspect this is the case most of the time.

Meh, indeed.

When I mentioned to Daniel that I was going to be taking a Spiritual Autobiography class, he couldn’t have been more pleased. “Let me know when the book’s coming out,” he quipped.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that.  I haven’t even figured out which way is up yet when it comes to all of this,” I said. “It’s all… messy…” I said, trailing off into defeated silence. Over the last few years, “messy” has become a catch-all term for what’s left of the faith I used to know.  (Perhaps you’ve noticed.) 

“Ah. There’s your title. ‘Which Way’s Up’ seems like a great place to start.”

I wonder if he’s always been this comfortable with uncertainty. It very nearly makes me want to slap him. Then again, it’s nice to have someone in your life I can tell all the horrible things I think sometimes. He never cringes, much as I would expect a pastor to.  I told him once that I wasn’t sure if I was really a Christian anymore.  The conversation continued no differently than if I had told him that I like pepperoni pizza.

I love him for this.  It’s this kind of permission that helps me keep trying to find a place for faith in my life — somewhere I can be a thinking person and a graced one.

Still… I’m not quite sure what to say.  At 27, I haven’t come close to anything resembling a landing place yet.  An autobiography of any kind, much less a spiritual one, seems like an exercise in futility, an exercise in ascribing significance to events as they’re happening.  I don’t have a good lens for this yet.  I haven’t really moved past that moment of finding myself on the ground, looking around to see who pulled the carpet out from underneath me.  

I’m not sure how to.

Spiritual Autobiography Journal

Messy

When I mentioned to my pastor friend Daniel that I was going to be taking a Spiritual Autobiography class, he couldn’t have been more pleased. “Let me know when the book’s coming out,” he quipped.

“I haven’t even figured out which way is up yet when it comes to all of this,” I said. “It’s all… messy…” I said, trailing off into defeated silence. Over the last few years, “messy” has become a catch-all term for what’s left of the faith I used to know.

“Ah. There’s your title. ‘Which Way’s Up’ seems like a great place to start.”

I wonder if he’s always been this comfortable with uncertainty. It very nearly makes me want to slap him. Then again, it’s nice to have someone in your life I can tell all the horrible things I think sometimes. He never cringes, much as I would expect a pastor to. 

Sonnet 1

This is my first sonnet!  It scared the stuffing out of me in the beginning, but once it got moving, I had a blasty-blast working on it!

Sonnet 1

 

When first we wed, and trembling, said “I do,”

I knew not how my heart could fuller be;

With good intent, yet blind, I little knew

Of Time’s effect on love’s capacity.

For does an acorn know its future height

When dropped from august oak to forest floor?

And who can tell the roar of river’s might

When thund’ring winter rains begin to pour?

So too, I’ve set my happy sights too low

To think we’ve reached the apex of our bliss—

Fed grace and laughter, adoration grows

While strength’ning with each day this synthesis.

Just twice we’ve ridden round the fiery sun—

It’s true, dear heart – this pleasure’s just begun.

 

 

Hey kiddos!

We’re still alive!

Just barely.

A few things of note to report:

1) I just wrote my first sonnet!  Yay!  I should be ashamed at how clever this makes me feel.  But sonnets are hard!

2) The car accident injury stuff (yes, from five years ago) is finally all settled and done with.  I barely came out ahead of my medical bills, but I’m grateful that they’re (at last!) all paid.  Not without grief, however.  My lawyer, my own lawyer, was less than professional and harsh at the end of working together for about three years — all because he wanted to push me to go to trial to earn him some more cash.  Money-grubbing louses, all. 

Things I wish I would’ve known to do at the beginning of this: don’t let yourself be passed on to a new lawfirm without researching them and having a say in the matter.  My first lawyer retired, and I “inherited” this juniorest of junior lawyers, who consistently failed to give me relevant case information in a timely manner (i.e. me calling his office the day of the deadline for the other side to appeal, thinking we were all done, finding out they’d appealed it two weeks prior and no one told me, even though I’d specifically asked to be notified as soon as we got word), who failed to return phone calls or emails when promised, who contacted witnesses to appear two days before the arbitration, which was scheduled months in advance – among other lovely behavioral gems.  It was as if I had to babysit my own lawyer.  Awful.  Make expectations clear as far as communication goes, etc., right in the very beginning.  And, last, don’t let them push you around.  They work for YOU, not the other way around.

More than anything, I’m just happy to put this whole thing behind me.  It’s been a stressful part of the last five years.

3) On a far more fun note, I’m loving this quarter!  Poetry.  Spiritual Autobiography.  Mythalogical Lit.  I’m in heaven.  (And working my ass off).

4) I had the wonderful opportunity to fall completely in love with a new author this past week.  Peggy Shumaker came to read at Village Books here in Bellingham and Prof. Miller introduced me to her.  What a gracious, warm, lovely individual.  I wish I could capture in words the resonance of her voice as she read her work.  Mesmerizing.  She then visited our Spiritual Autobiography class the next day and read for us, occasionally kicking back into teacher mode, which was a real gift.  If you get a chance, check out Just Breathe Normally.  It’s an amazing memoir constructed while Peggy was piecing her memory back together after a cycling accident left her with cranial injuries.  I’m thoroughly enjoying it.

5)  It’s supposed to snow this weekend.  RIDICULOUS.

poetry exercise 1

In this exercise, we were to speak of a person close to us using only metaphor.  Or, at least, as much as possible.  I had way too much fun with this.

HUSBAND

 

My husband whose hair is a retreating army

Whose head is a patch of new-grown grass

Whose brows are painted brushstrokes

 

Obscured by glasses, by cobwebbed windows

His eyes are placid pools of jade; his irises

Strands of kelp on a glassy sea

 

My husband who stands tall as sequoia

Whose pace is of plodding oxen

Whose step is one giant leap            

for me

Whose skin is a canvas

Displaying physician’s signatures and

Artistic sketches alike

Whose spine is a curved serpent

Whose leaning walls have been rebuilt, whose

            steel scaffolding remains

 

My husband whose tongue is a sheathed blade

Whose humor is a Celtic knot

Whose wit is an arrow

              shot quickly

            bullseye

 

Whose jaw is of rough-hewn timber

Whose lips are soft like ripened plums

Whose kisses savor of strong coffee

and hazelnut cream

 

My husband whose silences are rumbling thunder

Whose thoughts are buried treasure

Whose voice is the cello’s smooth song

 

My husband whose smile is a slanting frame

Whose grin is a curtain-climber caught in mischief

Whose grin is a pink eraser

amnesia

instant forgiveness

 

My love whose nearness is warm laundry

            donned straight out of the dryer

Whose nearness is of jasmine and dewy grass fields

Whose nearness is the comfort of bare feet in

coarse white sand

 

My love whose laugh is happy birthday

Whose laugh is Christmas morning

Whose laugh is running

through sprinklers

fully clothed

 

 

 

fun with poetry!

I’m having a blasty blast in my poetry class!  Even though I’m half-scared to death!

Check out my first fledgling effort here.

journal

my writing area…

My desk is set up in our little “office.”  My computer sits on a sturdy oak desk, and speakers are set up to play whatever music suits my fancy.  Three books sit on my desk: TS Eliot’s Four Quartets, Thomas Merton’s Thoughts in Solitude, and Frederick Beuchner’s The Hungering Dark.  I try to keep it as uncluttered as possible — since clearing away clutter is my main expression of procrastination.

Above my desk, a bulletin board is full of things that are meaningful to me.  The pages we read our vows from are in one corner.  A note that came with flowers Justin sent me a day before his visit after a long time apart is tacked above them.  A sheet of paper speaks two words that became my motto that first difficult quarter back at school: “Die trying.”  Song lyrics.  An email from a prof encouraging me after a good paper.  Pictures that remind me of relaxing moments.  A prayer from Thomas Merton.  Cards from my husband, filled with words that are precious to me.

A whiteboard hangs a few feet to my left, and birthdays and other events are written down so I don’t forget them in the crazy rhythm that is our married-working-student life.

Next to my desk is a huge, somewhat-organized file cabinet, and my diplomas sit above it — just to remind me that graduation is indeed possible.

Behind me are my keyboard and guitar.  I don’t play them as often as I should, but having them near is soothing.

 

journal

I’m working on getting most of my photos scanned into my computer.  I keep on coming across old pictures of my mom when she was young.  One sticks out.

She’s about nineteen in this photograph, and recently married to my dad.  Her wavy auburn hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it in real life — it’s been cut short ever since I was a baby.  She’s standing in between two cars, and she’s aiming a mischievous grin at the camera.  Even her eyes are smiling.  She’s beautiful.

What strikes me most is her coquettish pose.  One elbow is bent and her hand, holding the keys, is dramatically held near the top of her head.  (Is she about to throw the keys at the cameraman?)  Her body is turned a little sideways, and her knee is bent, showing off her girlish curves.

She looks so carefree, so vibrant.  The whole world is ahead of her.

I see glimpses of this girl whenever my mom gets going on a really good laugh.  The grin, the smiling eyes.

   

because I’m not feeling very good right now and laughter helps.

watch?v=yO-vDA73MNs

Enjoy!  (This one is Justin’s favorite).