Today I saw a bluebird perched on a speed limit sign. It made me smile.
Today when I was practically running through Wal-Mart, tossing things like bread, bagels, and Nutri-grain bars (yuck!) into my cart, I happened to notice a box of Asian Helper alongside the Hamburger Helper. I nearly laughed out loud. I bought neither.
Today I did laugh out loud while I sat in my car, opening the mail. (We have to go to the post office -- Mayberry style -- to get our mail). I laughed out loud at the absurdity of the letter we received from my husband's health insurance company. Starting next month his premium will increase by $150 a month to a whopping $600/month. TMI? Oh well, in case any of you lovely readers of this blog think massive healthcare reform isn't needed, I am here to tell you unequivocally that it is.
Today I heard a reporter on CNN say, "...most of them anyways." Anyways?
Today it is in the forties and windy and we discovered that we will have to buy another cord of wood to make it until the warm weather arrives.
Today I am wearing my most uncomfortable pair of jeans because all of my comfy jeans have ripped and shredded. I can't wait until I can put on my comfy sweatpants. I think I need to go shopping for some better jeans.
Today we received an email informing us that our oldest son is going to be inducted into the National Honor Society next week.
Today I am praying and hoping, praying and hoping, praying and hoping that Son2 will make it a whole week without a migraine. If he hasn't gotten one by the time he wakes up tomorrow morning, then it will be a week -- the longest stretch without a migraine in months. This will truly be a miracle.
Today I heard a new Joshua Radin song, "Sky," on the radio. I enjoyed it. I also heard a Tori Amos cover of "I don't like Mondays," and I didn't enjoy that (despite the fact that I do, generally, enjoy Tori Amos).
Today I worked on editing a children's picture book manuscript but didn't get it finished. Rrgg.
Days are made of such wonderful and such mundane moments. Tell me about some of your today moments.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Poem Crazy, again
One book I return to occasionally is Poem Crazy: Freeing Your Life with Words. If you are prone to poetry writing at all, I highly recommend it. In my opinion much poetry is just dreadful to read -- either too abstract or too much about feelings, rather than evoking some. And other poems are deliberately too dense, leaving you with nothing more than a WHAT? I hate poems like that; they lack respect for the reader's time and attention. But Poem Crazy is good medicine for what ails your poetry, and I'm thinking of reading it again.
I guess I'm thinking of reading it again because I've been thinking about poetry again. I haven't written much poetry in the last five years, but I got the spark when my beloved childhood friend sent me her 12-year-old daughter's poem in the mail. I keep forgetting to ask her permission to post the poem here, but if she allows me to, I'll post it sometime soon. It is nothing short of astounding, and I hope she lets me share it. It brought tears to my eyes when I read it -- because it's such a wonderful poem, but also because this lovely girl has the flame of poetry inside her. I love that I can be inspired by a 12-year-old's work, and I'm grateful too.
On Friday I had Son2 write a list of Spring words. I do this to him occasionally, and he hates it. Oh well. It's a great exercise (one recommended in a few variations in Poem Crazy), and it creates some fertile ground for poetry writing. This morning when I walked the dog, I thought about my own Spring words as I listened to all the different bird songs and observed the tentative signs of life. They started stringing themselves together into phrases and ideas, and I know a poem will be coming soon. If (or when) I'm happy with it, then maybe I'll post it.
In the meantime, I'll leave you with a Spring poem I wrote a few years ago:
The Oriole
Will our orioles return with the daffodils?
Arrest our attention with their treetop song?
Will they weave another basket to dangle
precipitously
from the end of the slimmest of branches?
Will they lose another nestling
whose wings cannot bear it to safety?
Do those treetop dwellers remember?
With what dreams do they greet the spring?
I guess I'm thinking of reading it again because I've been thinking about poetry again. I haven't written much poetry in the last five years, but I got the spark when my beloved childhood friend sent me her 12-year-old daughter's poem in the mail. I keep forgetting to ask her permission to post the poem here, but if she allows me to, I'll post it sometime soon. It is nothing short of astounding, and I hope she lets me share it. It brought tears to my eyes when I read it -- because it's such a wonderful poem, but also because this lovely girl has the flame of poetry inside her. I love that I can be inspired by a 12-year-old's work, and I'm grateful too.
On Friday I had Son2 write a list of Spring words. I do this to him occasionally, and he hates it. Oh well. It's a great exercise (one recommended in a few variations in Poem Crazy), and it creates some fertile ground for poetry writing. This morning when I walked the dog, I thought about my own Spring words as I listened to all the different bird songs and observed the tentative signs of life. They started stringing themselves together into phrases and ideas, and I know a poem will be coming soon. If (or when) I'm happy with it, then maybe I'll post it.
In the meantime, I'll leave you with a Spring poem I wrote a few years ago:
The Oriole
Will our orioles return with the daffodils?
Arrest our attention with their treetop song?
Will they weave another basket to dangle
precipitously
from the end of the slimmest of branches?
Will they lose another nestling
whose wings cannot bear it to safety?
Do those treetop dwellers remember?
With what dreams do they greet the spring?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Some books
A few weeks ago I was listening to Fresh Air, one of my favorite programs on NPR, and I heard an interview with Bart Ehrman, author of the book Jesus, Interrupted: Revealing the Hidden Contradictions in the Bible. I won't talk about the contradictions. I don't feel qualified. But what intrigued me about the interview was the author's discussion of his faith.
He considered himself a "born-again Christian" for years, including his time in seminary at Moody Bible Institute. But then he went on to Princeton Theological Seminary, and the more he studied, the more convinced he became that the Bible is not inerrant. This dramatically changed the author's faith, and he lived with that changed faith for years. But eventually he became an agnostic. Why? He decided he could no longer believe that a good God could allow so much suffering in the world.
I felt sad when I heard this, though I must tell you...the author did not seem sad. But it just got me wondering, why do we humans so often see this world as the glass half empty? We see the suffering, and we decide there is no loving God. I can understand that. I can. But how is it that we listen to the sound of the ocean waves and the cheerful chorus of birds, smell the lilacs and lillies, see the stars sparkling in our night sky and marvel at the way they offer a mode of navigation (if you happen to be a 15th century explorer)...and don't wonder whether there might just be an all-loving higher power out there after all? We survive because the sun and the rain do their work in the earth and enable us to eat...and we don't see God's goodness. Why is it so easy to draw conclusions from the suffering, but not draw the opposite conclusion from the beauty and the masterful design of this place? Interestingly enough, the interviewer asked him whether he still lived a life committed to ethics, and he said yes. That he felt even more free to choose and act in a moral and ethical way. He actually said, "A sense of morality and ethics is hardwired into me." I found that to be an interesting and telling choice of words...
I was talking with a friend about this, and she mentioned another book (don't know the title) written by someone who underwent a dramatic conversion from addict to drug-free Christian, and years later renounced his faith because he decided God didn't answer his prayers. It got me thinking that these two men are each on their own journeys, and these particular books may not be their last words on faith. Some day, a new understanding may come to them. If so, maybe they'll write some new books.
I haven't read Jesus, Interrupted and don't really plan to. But after a long and exhausting search for any book that will capture my attention, I have found one: An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith. I'm only in chapter 2, but the theme seems to be that the whole world is God's House, and we can encounter him anywhere. He is not confined to the church and his speech is not only heard through the Bible. I think I will be sharing my thoughts about this book as I read it, because I love it. I'll leave you with this quote from chapter 1:
"The House of God stretches from one corner of the universe to the other. Sea monsters and ostriches live in it, along with people who pray in languages I do not speak, whose names I will never know.
"I am not in charge of this House, and never will be. I have no say about who is in and who is out. I do not get to make the rules. Like Job, I was nowhere when God laid the foundations of the earth. I cannot bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose the cords of Orion. I do not even know when the mountain goats give birth, much less the ordinances of the heavens. I am a guest here, charged with serving other guests -- even those who present themselves as my enemies."
He considered himself a "born-again Christian" for years, including his time in seminary at Moody Bible Institute. But then he went on to Princeton Theological Seminary, and the more he studied, the more convinced he became that the Bible is not inerrant. This dramatically changed the author's faith, and he lived with that changed faith for years. But eventually he became an agnostic. Why? He decided he could no longer believe that a good God could allow so much suffering in the world.
I felt sad when I heard this, though I must tell you...the author did not seem sad. But it just got me wondering, why do we humans so often see this world as the glass half empty? We see the suffering, and we decide there is no loving God. I can understand that. I can. But how is it that we listen to the sound of the ocean waves and the cheerful chorus of birds, smell the lilacs and lillies, see the stars sparkling in our night sky and marvel at the way they offer a mode of navigation (if you happen to be a 15th century explorer)...and don't wonder whether there might just be an all-loving higher power out there after all? We survive because the sun and the rain do their work in the earth and enable us to eat...and we don't see God's goodness. Why is it so easy to draw conclusions from the suffering, but not draw the opposite conclusion from the beauty and the masterful design of this place? Interestingly enough, the interviewer asked him whether he still lived a life committed to ethics, and he said yes. That he felt even more free to choose and act in a moral and ethical way. He actually said, "A sense of morality and ethics is hardwired into me." I found that to be an interesting and telling choice of words...
I was talking with a friend about this, and she mentioned another book (don't know the title) written by someone who underwent a dramatic conversion from addict to drug-free Christian, and years later renounced his faith because he decided God didn't answer his prayers. It got me thinking that these two men are each on their own journeys, and these particular books may not be their last words on faith. Some day, a new understanding may come to them. If so, maybe they'll write some new books.
I haven't read Jesus, Interrupted and don't really plan to. But after a long and exhausting search for any book that will capture my attention, I have found one: An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith. I'm only in chapter 2, but the theme seems to be that the whole world is God's House, and we can encounter him anywhere. He is not confined to the church and his speech is not only heard through the Bible. I think I will be sharing my thoughts about this book as I read it, because I love it. I'll leave you with this quote from chapter 1:
"The House of God stretches from one corner of the universe to the other. Sea monsters and ostriches live in it, along with people who pray in languages I do not speak, whose names I will never know.
"I am not in charge of this House, and never will be. I have no say about who is in and who is out. I do not get to make the rules. Like Job, I was nowhere when God laid the foundations of the earth. I cannot bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose the cords of Orion. I do not even know when the mountain goats give birth, much less the ordinances of the heavens. I am a guest here, charged with serving other guests -- even those who present themselves as my enemies."
Monday, March 2, 2009
In Like a Lion
When I was little, I was captivated by the phrase "March comes in like a lion but goes out like a lamb." Why, I am not certain. I do know that as a child I was always looking for certainty...so even a phrase that confidently predicted the weather may have been a welcome guarantee. Or perhaps I just liked the way the cold weather was described as a lion, and the warm weather as a lamb. A simile I could grasp.
March definitely roared in like a lion yesterday – just when I’d made peace with this winter’s lack of snow and my own readiness for spring. I’m not a big fan of a winter without snow, though recently I’ve been struck by the beauty of winter’s snowless palette.
One thing I love about living in this strange place, so different from the suburbia where I grew up and the urban areas I chose to live as a young adult, is the connection it brings with the changing landscape.
In the mornings I walk my dog down a street that leads out of town. It’s a strange street, because it is lined with houses and a sidewalk on one side and an enormous farm with a beautiful stone farmhouse and barn on the other. The farmland has gentle slopes and sections of thickets. Any time of year, on any given day, it can take my breath away. Not in a Grand Canyon kind of way, but in the way a single flower can bring you to your knees if you see it at the right time, when you’re in a particular frame of mind.
Last week, when I was out walking, I was struck by all the subtle variations of brown and barely green that paint the winter landscape. The pale hues seem to make the stripped trees appear darker, almost black, and the sycamore trees look even whiter. The sycamores look so wise and old and surprising. Sometimes they remind me of Gandalf.
Soon the trees and plants will blush and bud. The lion will be tamed, and spring will be here. But first we’ll shovel snow.
March definitely roared in like a lion yesterday – just when I’d made peace with this winter’s lack of snow and my own readiness for spring. I’m not a big fan of a winter without snow, though recently I’ve been struck by the beauty of winter’s snowless palette.
One thing I love about living in this strange place, so different from the suburbia where I grew up and the urban areas I chose to live as a young adult, is the connection it brings with the changing landscape.
In the mornings I walk my dog down a street that leads out of town. It’s a strange street, because it is lined with houses and a sidewalk on one side and an enormous farm with a beautiful stone farmhouse and barn on the other. The farmland has gentle slopes and sections of thickets. Any time of year, on any given day, it can take my breath away. Not in a Grand Canyon kind of way, but in the way a single flower can bring you to your knees if you see it at the right time, when you’re in a particular frame of mind.
Last week, when I was out walking, I was struck by all the subtle variations of brown and barely green that paint the winter landscape. The pale hues seem to make the stripped trees appear darker, almost black, and the sycamore trees look even whiter. The sycamores look so wise and old and surprising. Sometimes they remind me of Gandalf.
Soon the trees and plants will blush and bud. The lion will be tamed, and spring will be here. But first we’ll shovel snow.
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