Moon Face

Is there anything more beautiful than a cool summer night with the promise of fall in the air? Luminous lop-sided moonface looming, and stars peeping overhead? Is there anything more beautiful than breathing in and out under such a sky?

Not tonight, Beloved. Not tonight.

Goodbye August....

Fall is in the air on this last day of August. This morning, when I went out for my run, the cloudless sky and brisk temperatures opened my eyes.

Beauty everywhere as summer begins to shed her coat.

And the endless gifts continue…


Chestnuts fallen in piles around base of fence.

Fragrant honeysuckle beginning to yellow.

Morning glories in white and pink trailing through evergreen bushes… splashes of joy.

Blue heron standing tall as he stares past reflection into seamless pond.

Canada geese skimming through water, single file.

Moving day for neighbor: boxes stacked in driveway, two little boys winding in and out.

Sunshine through tree profile: light peek-a-boo.

Faithful furry friend in window, waiting for our walk upon return from run.

The sound water makes as it passes over stones, murmuring that secret language that works magic on my soul.

Butterfly…

Breeze gently blowing leaves.

Mangoes, kiwi, red raspberries…

A place to sit in the sun and eat my snack as gentle breeze kisses face and gives hair tendrils a tune to dance to.


I count my blessings, one by one…

Visit Ann over at Holy Experience to share more of the endless gifts.

Like a Freight Train

When bellies are fed and chores are done, Saturdays are for walking.

Showers moved through early today, scrubbing everything down and sending the creek a ‘babbling.

We step out.

The sun comes over us like an ocean wave, washing us in her amber glow.

We head down toward the bridge, soaking in this feeling of leisure—pure joy in each step. I have never seen them more relaxed than at these times, my two growing boys. I feel it too—tension leaving my body, mind slowing to be right here, right now.

A flock of bird startles overhead and we all crane necks to watch them soar. I feel my heart lifted, carried on wings. Leaves sway in wind, droplets of rain sparkle in grass. A white cat stares at me through neighbor’s window.

I hear the train approaching in the distance…whistle announcing this rude disruption coming on. It draws near with loud rattle of cars and scream of rails. We, all three, turn and give attention.

My Little Man waves, reminding his mama of a small me, searching these passing boxes for the man in the caboose. But he’s not there, and we walk on as the noise of passing years recedes into the surrounding hills.

Davy.

One would think my heart would forget by now, but I cannot hear the sound of rattling cars without thinking of him: old friend who lost his life on metal rails. The mystery of his death haunts me at times like these, but lately, the mournful sound of the train whistle brings something else also.

Comfort.

Strange, it seems, that the very thing that took him from us can bring him back to life so vividly.

A roaring, screaming, moving memorial to my friend.

Train.

We’ll never know what he was thinking the night he died, what drove him to such an act of hopelessness.

He was young.

If given the chance, would he do it again?

It reminds me of something John Ross said last night—about a Dobson family moment he heard on the radio.

“Parents are always asking kids, ‘What are you going to be when you grow up? Who are you going to be?’ But no one asks them, ‘Who are you right now?’”

If someone had asked, would it have mattered?

I have invited God into this sorrow but the peace that accompanies this healing does not keep me from missing my friend. Or from a longing to still that kind of silent pain that can take a life in such a way.

Never mind.

Can’t change the past.

But maybe…maybe we can learn from it.

I look at my boys.

They are throwing leaves over the bridge, watching for them to come out on the other side.

Who are you?

Heart beseeches.

Who are you now?

I lean over the edge of the bridge, join in this simple game.

In these golden moments I feel that they will be with me forever.

Surly I cannot exist apart from them.

And in the distance, a train whistle blows.

Skeletons in the Closet

hand trails…
over
folds of cloth
above
memories of feet
that have
walked
thousands of miles—
do the soles
remember?
skirts
that swayed
with swish
of hips
lank
no breeze blows
in here.
and that hat
he gave me
when we were
in college
when we were
in love…
the one I wore
with the blue dress
that Easter?
remember?
now arms
hang loose
that once
held skin
and brushed against life.
there’s the scarf
I bought in Chinatown
because it
brought
the blue out in my eyes.
these bones rattle,
bump together at night…
skeletons in my closet.

This is part of the poetry house tour. For more closet viewing, visit L.L.

Under the Broom Tree: Some Final Thoughts on The Gift

The alarm sounds before dawn, but I don’t need it--I have been awake for a while…obsessing.

It happens occasionally, this pre-dawn paranoia. Yesterday was long and perhaps I said some things I shouldn’t have.

Now those careless words won’t leave me be.

I’ve been under the broom tree for a few days now. Like that illustrious prophet, Elijah, I’ve been feeling discouraged…having a bit of a pity party.

The thoughts continue to flood in, so I do the only thing that seems to work at these times: try to outrun them.

The moon is still out when I breach the stillness, the white of a sunless sky just beginning to filter the horizon. Fog gathers in pools around my legs as I take those first steps, moisture clings to skin, breath is snaky tendril trailing.

I pour it out with each step, use that anxious energy to propel me forward.

Exorcism.

I run until my tired legs and oxygen gasping brain can only give one word, one Name.

I repeat it over and over; let it become the rhythm of my steps--while fingers find that tiny silver reminder that jostles against my skin.

My mind turns to the book we’ve been reading, and my heart turns inside of me.

My faith in the Gift’s return is wavering.

What if I am tired of giving?

The water in the reservoir lake is dark and murky, no sun play on its surface. A strange odor lingers. A heron stands erect, watching me with one eye.

I run on.

God tended to Elijah. Sent an angel to feed and water him under that broom tree.

Then He gave the prophet more work to do.

The thought causes a tightness in my chest.

And when God sent him to call Elisha as his successor, Elijah said,

“What have I done to you?”

Gift-living is hard.

Lewis Hyde does not speak in terms of emotional consequences of leaving our gifts behind without a promise.

I feel them today.

If only I could run to a cave and hear the whisper of God as Elijah did…

What would He say?

Probably the same thing he said then.

“What are you doing here, Laura?”

Translation: “What’s the matter with you? Why are you feeling sorry for yourself? Get back to work.”

But only after He’d let me rest under the broom tree. And sent His angel to tend me. And listened.

He always listens.

As I come upon my last mile and a half, the hills take on a rosy glow. The sun peeps up over their swells, her rounded head rising rapidly.

I think of what Chesterton said about monotony:

‘The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening,“Do it again” to the moon. It may be that he has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, our Father is younger than we.’

I have never considered a sunrise monotonous.

Not like the details of my life.

Sighing, I will my body up this hill, the last one before home.

As I approach our home, a small hound dog emerges from the meadow. Her head down, she approaches me, tail wagging.

I bend to cup her ears.

“Where did you come from, sugar?”

She reeks. Smells like the reservoir.

She follows me up the porch steps and whines when I go inside.

But when I return with food and water, she is gone, following the scent of some invisible trail.

I pray she finds her way back home.

Set the bowls down.

And leave them...just in case.

I did it. I outran the bad thoughts.

Restored, my heart thrills in this knowing: this gift-life will never be monotonous.



More thoughts on The Gift, by Lewis Hyde: Sam and L.L.

On the Merits of Rubber Attire

“It smells like a new rubber ball in here.”

The boys needed new shoes. And a coupla decent outfits to start the new school year in.

So we spent a large part of the morning at the Mall…an exercise in frustration.

Shopping with a ten and twelve-year-old boy is not a passion of mine.

They were goofy--trying to keep themselves entertained with a strange running commentary that I attempted to ignore. But I felt my nerves being stripped down, exposing the sensitive inner tendrils that could snap at any minute.

And now this.

“It smells like a new rubber ball in here.”

He wrinkled his nose for effect.

We were in Old Navy, desperately seeking the half-size advantage they offer.

Nothing.

I stood in the center of the store, realizing we were too late. They had already put away the shorts. My sweet, stockily-built, little man, with the thighs that need just a half-size more would have to make due until jean season.

He was pleased as punch. This is a boy who has worn the same tie-dyed shirt on the first day of school for two years running. He insists he’s wearing it again this year. Despite the occasional glimpse of belly button.

On the way out I looked around for the rubber suit that surly must be giving off that horrendous odor.

It was probably in the women’s section. More specifically, the mother’s section. Even more so: the mothers of young boys who are back-to- school shopping section.

As we drove off into the sunshine, I knew I needed some civilized conversation or my frayed nerves might just give way. I called a friend to see if she wanted to meet us for lunch. I had promised the boys they could have their mid-day meal at their favorite Italian eatery. Bribery seldom works, but I keep trying.

After the boys wolfed down two or three plates of pizza and Italian delicacies, they looked at me expectantly. I forked over a few quarters, anxious to send them to the game area (one reason this is their favorite lunch spot) and have some good conversation with my friend.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Little Man approach a copse of gumball machines. When he came back to the table, in his hand he held (you guessed it) a new rubber ball.

I’ve been bouncing off the walls, friends.

Things will settle down soon (I pray) but until then, I may be a bit sparse in the neighborhood.

This is me hanging the “out to lunch” sign.

I have some rubber suits to try on.

Priceless

This morning, I stood in my doctor’s office, awaiting my name to be called. For once, I was content as I sat idle; I was studying the most fascinating painting. I couldn’t make out the artist’s name, but admittedly, didn’t try too hard.

It was the colors. They were…arresting.

The bold terra cotta strokes spoke a high fortress wall to me and splashes of red enlivened the foreground, suggesting wildflowers growing haphazardly. It tickled me to think that perhaps my state of mind led me to this interpretation. How often do we feel hemmed in by our place of treatment?

It was beautiful.

And for a brief moment, I forgot the anxiety of the procedure I was about to undergo.

I’m sure some thought went in to picking that print. Someone perhaps agonized how it would look with these boring chairs in this waiting room--compared it to others viewed favorably. I know the thing was purchased by someone. But here it was, costing me not a thing…and gifting me with so much.

We can’t put a price on beauty.

This is what Lewis Hyde seems to be saying in our book study of The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World.

Yet, the dilemma arises: how will the artist survive if he doesn’t enter the market society? And in doing so, how does he preserve the gift nature of his art?

Hyde offers some suggestions: a patron, an agent, a secondary job…

He finally concludes, “…the artist who sells his own creations must develop a more subjective feel for the two economies and his own rituals for both keeping them apart and bringing them together.”

In the end, it’s up to the artist to preserve the integrity of his work. We are all susceptible to seduction by the market--whether we are talking about painting or blogging. It is very tempting to get caught up in giving people what they want.

Yet…

When I stand before a painting that tells a story to my heart, when I read a piece of writing that touches deep inside…I receive a gift of immeasurable portion.

The creator gives me part of himself.

This happens whether the piece of art is part of the market society or not…it still touches, it breathes beauty into lives.

Perhaps this is what Pablo Neruda means when he offers this quote, which Hyde gives us:

“I have been a lucky man. To feel the intimacy of brothers is a marvelous thing in life. To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life. But to feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know, from those unknown to us, who are watching over our sleep and solitude, over our dangers and our weaknesses—that is something still greater and more beautiful because it widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things…”

It’s not a gift until we give it away, Beloveds. The beauty of the gift always returns.

Visit High Calling Blogs for Sam’s thoughts on this chapter, and visit L.L. to contemplate chapter eight.

Forgiveness

“You can tell a lot about a person by the way he treats you when you make a mistake,” she said, not looking up. She was still struggling under the weight of it.

“It was a pretty big mistake,” he said, justifying the hurt.

She smiled weakly and nodded her head, still not looking at him.

They sat in the quiet, letting emptiness minister.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said.

She sat very still. The desire to nurse this wound was very great. It tugged at her…the unfairness of it all.

Then she put her arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

She could let this go. Didn’t she already have Someone who waited for her every day—Someone filled with grace and mercy?

“It’s okay.”

Down the Hall

Down the hall
memories
dangle
from thin wire—

snapshots
of time;
and it
marches on
as fox
stares
and
ladybugs
crawl,
down the hall

leather strap dangles
teases to pull
entrance to
attic room…
from the hall
I peer
down stairs

and see
life pass by
as
I sit
on floor
outside door
and listen
while
shower rains
on youngest—
who is
too afraid
of mirror-ghosts
to remain
upstairs alone.
Down the hall
half-open doors—
just a glimpse—

an invitation:
“Come on in.”
For
as Lewis says,
it is
in the rooms
that fire warms
and hot
tea awaits.

Not in the hall.


Visit Seedlings in Stone to read more of our poetic house tour...

Bleeding Heart

“Perfect gift is like the blood pumped through its vessels by the heart. Our blood is a thing that distributes the breath throughout the body, a liquid that flows when it carries the inner air and hardens when it meets the outer air, a substance that moves freely to every part but is nonetheless contained, a healer that goes without restraint to any needy place in the body. It moves under pressure…and inside its vessels the blood, the gift, is neither bought nor sold and it comes back forever.”

Thus Lewis Hyde brings together his discussion on usery, our topic of discussion for this week’s chapter from his book The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World.

Hyde discusses arguments for and against usury—the sharing of the profits from a loan or a gift—from a spiritual and societal viewpoint, and reminds us of the Jewish, Christian, and Muslim rules against such, and how the Reformation changed our views about it.

We are comparing the usury, similar to interest, to the increase of the gift discussed in previous chapters. Of this comparison, Hyde finally concludes:

“…market relationships and capital let out at interest do not bear the increase-of-the-whole that gift exchange will bear. Equable trade is not an agent of transformation, nor of spiritual and social cohesion…”

Once again we are talking about the growth of the group as opposed to the growth of the individual. Hyde makes the point (through discussion of John Calvin’s position) that we are not in the same societal situation as the ancient Jews, and “capital will not increase unless it is used”. In today’s society, a life without usury is difficult to imagine.

But Hyde’s point seems to be that we have lost something in this transition from gift society to capitalism. He suggests that exchange involving usury is an illustration of “bad faith”.

“Out of bad faith comes a longing for control, for the law and the police. Bad faith suspects that the gift will not come back, that things won’t work out, that there is a scarcity so great in the world that it will devour whatever gifts appear…”

And so, the man who gives freely is a man who trusts that the spirit of the gift will return to him, just as blood returns to the heart. No written guarantee, no contract...just simple trust. This is the charge of the Christian.

Regarding this, Hyde says, “The image of the Christian era would be the bleeding heart. The Christian can feel the spirit move inside all property. Everything on earth is a gift and God is the vessel…If we only open the heart with faith, we will be lifted to a greater circulation and the body that has been given up will be given back, reborn and freed from death. The boundaries of usury are to be broken wherever they are found so that the spirit may cover the world and vivify everything…”

Sounds sweet, no?

Yet, even Hyde acknowledges that the Christian who gives so is seen as a “sentimental fool”, a “bleeding heart”.

This chapter has me thinking about the current attempts of healthcare reform. We are seeking to serve those unable to afford the care they need and deserve. Yet, the outcry when our individual lives are affected is a self-righteous roar. We are unwilling to pay more taxes, or accept limitations, to help pay for those less fortunate.

We are a far cry from that spirit of brotherhood Hyde speaks of. Our world is a different place than that of the ancient Jews, it’s true. But my heart feels the pull of the bonds promoted in the type of communal giving in which they lived. To care for one another, to feel the needs of one another so deeply that the only response is to give of oneself…I believe this is how we were created to live.

Check out Sam's post at HCB, and L.L.'s thoughts here for more discussion on this chapter.

On Being Hungry

He comes down the stairs, tying robe—this smallest one. He is still growing into himself and his sweet, sleepy face always makes me smile in the morning.

“Why, hello there,” says I, “good morning, sleepyhead.”

He sits down on stairs right where I spied him and rubs sleepy eyes.

“Is it time to eat?”

He is waking up hungry.

So I stop what I am doing and move to kitchen…captivated by this sleepy sun brightening quiet morning—dawn sprite.

I hum as bacon sizzles.

He wants chocolate chip pancakes, so I move to cupboard.

Dash of vanilla—

When was the last time I woke up hungry?

This thought rips through peaceful regimen and I stand, frozen, in the middle of the kitchen.

Instinctively, I raise a hand to abdomen…feeling for that burning hunger of days past.

What fills me?

My days are well-scripted, my mornings a sanctuary. But in this unfinished state, how can I feel sated?

I turn thoughts inward. Probe around with sixth sense.

I feel no hunger there. Yet, no satisfaction either.

Instead, this deep cavernous hole unfolds.

I ponder these things as I turn the chips in the batter—tiny specs in a fluffy sea of white.

This floundering has its purpose…to awaken me to this monochromatic living I’ve been doing these past weeks.

Life has drained me dry. I’m too tired to hunger.

I know He is calling me.

He desires a rekindling. Fan these ashes into hot flame.

I watch as Jeffrey carefully picks apart pancakes…sopping every forkful with gooey syrup and savoring each bite. His hunger will be satisfied for now, but this tasty goodness will always bring him back for more.

There is a difference between eating and feasting, Beloved. And when one is used to being filled with good food, hunger pangs bring urgency. Not just any old food will do.

Of late, I have been snacking.Settling.

A little here. A little there. Just enough to quell the hunger pangs.

But not enough to truly satisfy.

Just enough to keep the hunger from truly deepening.

I’m not sure where to begin in this quarry. I’m still digging around, searching.

But I know that He will lead me.

He never lets me be.

Thank God.

He never lets me be.

Living

There
were no
curtains on the windows.

We moved in
and three days
later
he came.

Boxes sat
in corners
and
no curtains
on the windows.

Empty
gaping
glass stared
in at me
as I sat on
the couch
holding our
infant
and
crying.

Only Oprah for company.

Berber carpet
pristine threads
spread out
waiting
for living
in this
living room.

First stain?
Carrot purée
gift
from Maggie—
baby
visiting baby
and she spewed.

The bright
orange
patch filled
me
with relief
now
we can start
living
in
this living room.

Visit L.L. at Seedlings in Stone for more poetry magic...

Medicine Man

“I have been drifting,” she said.

This week and one day later her words still with me.

I turn them over and over, let them hollow me out.

Haven’t I been also?

Drifting?

A broken heart turned her rudder.

What of me? What will shake me out of this hapless meander?

I am…

floundering.

Beginning to wonder.

So I wander instead.

Outside at dusk.

Sit on front stoop and listen.

Watch bats flap maniacally.

Full moon rises over three of Billie Jo’s trees.

She planted them when she wanted a baby so badly. Empty inside; so she grew things. The yard is lush with shrubbery and flowering bushes.

But these three—Cyprus trinity with golden eye above.

They make me think of little Sarah who now sleeps in Billie Jo’s nursery.

More bats.

They seem so…frantic.

Directionless.

Crazy wings fanning, senseless dips and dives.

I turn my mind to Him. Deliberately turn the rudder. Focus heart on Him…

and listen.

One of my patients recently told me that when he was dying, in the moments when he almost left this world, he felt it.

“The peace that surpasses all understanding.”

Philippians 4:7.

"And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

I grope around for it, blindly reaching.

Where are You in all this, Lord?

Sometimes He makes me wait, further molding my character. But tonight, He knows my desperation. He comes to me and tends my heart. Wraps me in His love. And I feel it too…this peace.

A firefly alights beside me.

I am bemused.

Lucy Mae tries to eat it.

I think of the love trees. And the crazy flap of a bat’s wings.

And it all makes sense.

The Spirit inside directs my steps.

It feels haphazard. It feels empty sometimes.

But there is a reason.

This, I trust with all my heart. Sometimes, I just need to remember.


For other stories of how His Word lives...

Gift Labor

Does being relational inhibit or promote personal growth?

Time for our Monday book club discussion. In chapter four of The Gift: Creativity and Artist in the Modern World, Lewis Hyde explores the feminine nature of gift labor.

Hyde, back in chapter three, distinguishes work from labor. Work, he says, “is an intended activity that is accomplished through the will.” We work for money (usually). Labor, Hyde says, refers “to something dictated by the course of life rather than by society, something that is often urgent but that nevertheless has its own interior rhythm, something more bound up with feeling, more interior, than work.”

I’m thinking of labor as more of a calling. So, along that line, “gift labor” refers to choosing a path in life that requires giving of oneself…more deeply than surface-giving…more than just punching the clock.

Hyde says that gift labor is largely a feminine thing.

Without being judgmental, he refers to “female tasks” as those types of jobs and services that deal with subjects that are difficult to quantify—nursing, teaching, social work, caregiving. These types of roles, Hyde says, require “…the kind of emotional or spiritual commitment” that is independent from market value. The relationships involved in these types of roles offer their own value; at least to most women. There is something inherently appealing about this type of work that calls to the feminine nature.

Hyde maintains that in male commerce, “relationship is a secondary concern”, and so, women typically fill these roles. Men prefer to deal in commodities, conducting their business independent of relationship.

Is this a good thing? Um, more importantly, is it natural?

Hyde briefly touches on this transition of males from the internal more spiritual matters to this capitalistic outlook: “…the nineteenth century saw a decline in faith coincide with the remarkable success of a secular, mercantile, and entrepreneurial spirit.”

Women tend the emotional world; men, the business.

It’s easy for us to accept that this has always been. But if we look at history, we see that men of the past did not shy away from “attention to inner life.”

Many of our greatest spiritual leaders and teachers were male. These guys were not concerned whether they appeared “manly” or not. Or perhaps their definition of "manly" was a bit different.

Jewish tradition holds that the father is responsible for teaching children the tenets of faith.

Yet, male Sunday school teachers (of children) are a minority today.

It’s women’s work.

Sigh. I’m not a feminist, and lest I be misunderstood I will limit this discussion. Suffice it to say that we would be better off to, as Hyde says, “…recognize that they are not ‘female’ but human tasks.” (Emphasis mine).

Sharing in the gift labor would likely yield more balance in our personal lives, as well as our society.