In the interest of sleep, I will not be able to share all of my thoughts. These were those the rose to the surface first. Many of them are related to one another, having surfaced in a chain—like a garland of musings. I wove the garlands together.
What does the BCS have to offer us, Spartan Nation, when Paul Bunyan is safe on our campus? The season is won. Take that, UofM.
Blue eyes are not uncommon to me. I have a pair, myself. In interactions at work and church I look directly into pretty circles of faux ocean, ringlets like sky lights, and hoops of near-green and never think of any particular person. I would love if the world were filled with eyes of purple, yellow, orange, and the brightest greens—each with its own virtues and shades to explore. Yet brown eyes grab me by the heart and make me a fool, shaking loose old memories. Every pair was only one to me: most beautiful of all.
What if Adam and Eve were not the first homo sapiens but the first homo sapiens to commune with God? If so, I have not been giving them enough credit! They got it right for a while, before the species started this long detour. God came looking for them after their mistake but they over-thought the whole thing and stuck fig-leaves between themselves and God. The first curtain.
I became a 'member' of Blue Lake Public Radio yesterday. The more I listen to their programming, the more I realize that I am fundamentally changing. I started dancing to some flute music as I prepared to do my Monday-night job-search. Six months ago, I worried that I would be unworthy of love; now, I am content to know I will share my antics somehow... and it appears to only be getting better.
It is a sad state when we allow ourselves to value our institutions more than the concepts which they exist to further. I thought of this while I was eating my PBJ. Religions are vehicles of spirituality; schools, of education; governments, of the law. I tried for some time to think of the institution that influences society. All of the above... and more besides. Every institution is really meant for society-- but some have more business influencing society than others.
As I read the book of Numbers I notice the prescribed distances between the tabernacle and most of the nation and how few people actually communed with God. I noticed those who did were all Moses's relatives, the Levites. He probably trusted them to do things 'right', as he perceived God to be saying. For several hundred years after that, prophets wondered why the people drifted from God's will. Maybe because they were set out on the edge? Curtains need ripping.
The most surprising moment of the day was realizing that in spite of the neuroses, the bad habits, and the erroneous assumptions that my parents transmitted to me they still equipped me better than most to exercise empathy and humility. Most days, I feel as if someone else's parents would have done better. That is precisely what God intends to do, anyway. (He seems to have changed the font)
Religious leaders on the right and the left will tell you that God is constant. I agree. God does not change God's mind, they say, and so each command that is given to the Israelites in the Bible, by extension, is applicable to our species today. I disagree. Our species is maturing over time (the dirty word is 'evolving') and like a good parent God's approach has, too. No parent treats their kindergartner like their teenager and this is justified. Jesus did not visit the garden of Eden or the great flood or the exile to Babylon—the time was not right. People in Sodom and Gomorrah could not be responsible homosexuals and they were destroyed. Since then, we've grown—we worked our way toward Jesus. Does not each age deserve its own considerations? Just a thought?
Lou, my community band section mate, lamented the self-centeredness of the latest generation. He also cut straight to the kernel of the issue, which is that they are not fundamentally selfish. They simply do not understand the motivations behind generosity and community. I fear that our society has spent two centuries disassembling the mechanisms that keep us from disassembling—in the name of liberty? Individuality? Television?
Dream Woman visited me again last night. She was sitting on a red couch with her wine goblet in a tastefully decorated room. We were just about to sit down and listen to public radio together when I awakened, wishing we could have conversed longer. Dream woman used to hold me, kiss me-- sometimes try to take my clothes off! Now, she wants to smile at me, engage me, get old with me. She was a brown-eyed metaphor for the changes in my desires—
--and she looked quite familiar to me.
Moses wanted so badly to get things right. The minutia of spiritual life is written in his hand; each stage is painstakingly recorded, discerned—cognitively processed. It was the law. Its aim was to delineate God's will with no room for doubt. Also, no room for Faith. Jesus said "It's not I that accuse you but Moses". Did you ever notice that Jesus never wrote anything down himself except in the dirt with his finger? That's the guy I follow. When Jesus came down from the mountain, God was written on his heart-- not on tablets of stone.
I would not count on Dream Woman always preferring NPR to fanning her passions but it was refreshing; even 'cool' of her.
If MSU can beat Iowa, "it" is theirs to lose. Since we are talking about the BCS, "it" is a fluid concept right now.
The entry is not what I imagined it would be; no musical thoughts or thoughts about writing... I love it just the same. Have a good night!
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Highlight Reel
Against my judgment, I am relinquishing to my intuition and doing some writing-- though only in part. I say in part because I had a week and a half that was more than worth unpacking. It practically demands unpacking in eloquent ways. However, competing interests have brought me to this point: I am in the wee hours of the morning, having browsed Idealist.org for far-away jobs... and rapidgrowthmedia.com on the off-chance there would be a local job. I also blew some time completing an application to a job I am not sure I want. I might have done well to work harder on that application, actually, since a half-hearted effort might be a total waste rather than whole-hearted partial waste...
Nevermind... I'm learning not to make those distinctions any more.
*tries to remain awake* I am frustrated by my need for sleep. So, I will have to give you snippets and fail on a global level in order to produce something that is worth more than skimming. Why would I care? Because I am a writer now... but before I finish that thought...
I left my watch intentionally in the car in order to escape the disheartening sense of chronos that has plagued my life. So, the mid-point of my weekend retreat at Kinawind took place in a kayak on the most beautiful fall day in my memory-- a mid-point not because I can calculate the point where the weekend was half over but because I located it's natural trope-- a touch of kairos.
It was an unexpected provision of God-- or a quite intention jest on the Supreme Beings part. The entire weekend had been intolerably cold in the clothes I had selected but after a brisk morning walk with some other ex-staff-members, I found myself in what I consider and enviable position: stepping into a boat on a gorgeous day in a remote place with Fred Elmore--my former boss and one of only three men I sincerely want to become like. The clouds opened and the lake was filled with subtle ripples so that it glowed with the air-brushed images of frost-tinged boughs turned fiery yellow, orange and red. Well, the pines didn't cooperate... as is their way...
After a brief hiatus to see an old beaver lodge, I joined Fred and company heading west on Thumb Lake. Old Fred and I hugged the shore, watching for loons and enjoying a closer look at the brightening trees. After a while, we crossed a wide sand-bar and heard the sound of quarreling in the distance. Slicing across the water, I spied a pair of young men with oars trying to wiggle an old raft to the shore. They were not getting along well. As I drew closer, I recognized the shorter one. I recognized him but could not identify him-- I knew I had seen him. Not only that, I knew that I had cared about him! He was a kid I liked but I did not know how. I thought of every camper I had seen while I was at Kinawind (or tried); then I flashed through my Judson Collin memories. No... he looked somewhat like George but he was too old.
Fred and I asked them if they needed any help but by that time their coordination had improved. A man came onto their pier to guide them in-- he looked just old enough to be their father but his beard was gray. He, too, had something of the familiar in him. Then, a boxer ran onto the pier. Something was right about the boxer too. I could not place any of their faces.
Finally, Fred asked the man how Heidi was.
*click* *click* *click* The boy I like is David. The taller one is his non-identical twin, Drew. Their Dad is Jeff DeMoss and their dog is named Tunza. Tunza smells of fish, likes to give uninvited kisses and kicks vigorously when you rub his belly. Heidi DeMoss has a Masters in Christian Education. She recommended my ex-girlfriend to her church job-- in fact, my ex lived with them for a year. They are wonderful people who I will perpetually miss--- and I don't believe I was recognized. In fact, I preferred it that way. I made the "okay" sign and swung my boat back into the glassier parts of the lake. I started to paddle, unconsciously, away from the scene in deep thought-- away from memories of Ashley and into the beauty of that day. Later, I made a solo landing on "Froggy Island" and admired all of the mushrooms, there, that no one else was seeing. Mushrooms... we saw so many beautiful mushrooms, I wish I could dwell on only those. This, itself, is a mushroom to me-- the fruit of submerged associative networks. I fall in love and learn someone else's life and then when she has gone I am left with these experiences... but so seldom such a chance encounter with real people. I did not want it to go to waste. [room for expansion]
I saw the other living man I want to be more like. His name is David, too... and I like him. He taught me Writing Center Rhetoric, then hired me as a peer consultant a few months later. He was director before I left and left for another position at the university before I was finished. I made an appointment with Dave expecting to talk to him about how to start a degree in Writing & Rhetorical Theory. Before I made the journey-- and before I even made my trip to Kinawind, I felt a strong tug to seriously consider an MFA~ in spite of my own tentativeness up to this point, in spite of not having any promise of success... in spite feeling as if I've already cheated myself. No. I finally hit that point where... I am willing to take a year or two to just work on the portfolio, so long as I can make a living. I was ready to defend myself to Dave... for a little while. Just until he reassured me how much smarter it would be to go into Rhetorical Theory.
But Dave has an MFA... I had forgotten that. Our conversation took a turn I did not expect: I have his blessing. He wants me to keep him abreast. Also, he keeps a drum in his office (just saying).
Are these spots short enough? I am hot and tired... moving on...
Here's a short story: once upon a time, my boss gave me an RFP for a grant that is due at the end of this week. Rather than start immediately on it, I found other things that seemed more pressing. Then, I spent what felt like a prudent amount of time on research and planning, only to come-up empty and feel even more unsure. I e-mailed my boss for guidance. Instead, I received notification of a performance review he had given of me on the AmeriCorps website. He said almost nothing about my job as volunteer coordinator, focusing instead on how I just stayed busy but did not take initiative-- that i had failed to deliver on this grant. So, I had a meeting with him: face to face. It was actually a good talk; it felt like a real wake-up call. He said I was too caught-up in the minutia and that I failed to get the results the organization needed. He said my writing was excellent and I took things seriously... but that he didn't want to "shit-can" me. I seemed unable to work without close supervision. I was hurt but decided to finish the grant. I quit worrying about getting adequate support from research and wrote the damn thing MY way. I found that I liked my way. So does my Boss-- he high-fived me. So what the FUCK was stopping me in the first place?
I saw my spiritual director (this week was packed with revelations... shall I go on?) -- and he made some distinctions I needed. He said that it was possible to care without being attached. He also wondered if I was "becoming" my projects--- that I was letting these projects become representations of myself and, therefore, making myself anxious about their direction. We spoke of many things in this vein... but I wanted to take note of that distinction: attachment and caring are not synonymous.
I read an article on codependence. It made me sad first for myself and then even more for my mother. I finally saw that what afflicts me is not intrinsic. It is just a pattern so deeply rutted that it would appear to be part of my landscape. New paths can be blazed... flesh that out yourselves.
A young man named Elijah told me that I should take care of the little things and God would show me a big thing that would blow me mind. God has shown me several medium-sized things that added together are keeping me stoked. The time for bed draws near but I wanted to let you all know that the Wednesday nights remain intense. Mike Coller talked and prayed with me this week; I talked about how I was leaning toward believing that I am called to be a writer-- partly because I've actually known it for a while. I was hoping there was an "easier" way (that sentiment is getting more and more foreign as my true desire becomes clearer). Mike spoke-out in support... though he had a small prophesy of his own to share (*tingle*)-- he said he kept seeing me as a father-figure (*BIG TINGLE* --these are starting to look like more than coincidence... and I love it...). I commented that it might be a reassurance-- that it's not too late to become a good example again... or that I am wired for family life and I just got things out of order [room for expansion there, too] Excuse my patchy paragraph, folks... that's just how it's coming out tonight.
The pivotal moment was on Friday at the praise concert. I had a great week on trumpet and my tone continues to gain power even as I grow my improvisational capacity (which reminds me of yet ANOTHER thing... that I'll share another time). Sitting next to the new piano player, I lifted up my hands as the Latino band that followed-us began their set. I am not a hands-lifter by nature. That's a new practice, for me, and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who doesn't flat out get that sense "my hands should be in the air right now". Wait to feel that way... then DO IT. It's cool but not if it's fake; never if it's "I wonder if it would be more religious if I..." Nope: don't try to be religious. Wait to be spiritual. Anyway...
When I lifted my hands, I got an image in my mind of an alter with a beam of high-frequency light striking it like a giant sword. I wondered if that was an image I was intended to use in one of my unwritten books. I got a tingle. I asked God if I should chase 'the ninja'-- my name for inertia. I got a big tingle.
That night, I became a career writer.
Still some bad habits to kick, though! That's okay...
Nevermind... I'm learning not to make those distinctions any more.
*tries to remain awake* I am frustrated by my need for sleep. So, I will have to give you snippets and fail on a global level in order to produce something that is worth more than skimming. Why would I care? Because I am a writer now... but before I finish that thought...
I left my watch intentionally in the car in order to escape the disheartening sense of chronos that has plagued my life. So, the mid-point of my weekend retreat at Kinawind took place in a kayak on the most beautiful fall day in my memory-- a mid-point not because I can calculate the point where the weekend was half over but because I located it's natural trope-- a touch of kairos.
It was an unexpected provision of God-- or a quite intention jest on the Supreme Beings part. The entire weekend had been intolerably cold in the clothes I had selected but after a brisk morning walk with some other ex-staff-members, I found myself in what I consider and enviable position: stepping into a boat on a gorgeous day in a remote place with Fred Elmore--my former boss and one of only three men I sincerely want to become like. The clouds opened and the lake was filled with subtle ripples so that it glowed with the air-brushed images of frost-tinged boughs turned fiery yellow, orange and red. Well, the pines didn't cooperate... as is their way...
After a brief hiatus to see an old beaver lodge, I joined Fred and company heading west on Thumb Lake. Old Fred and I hugged the shore, watching for loons and enjoying a closer look at the brightening trees. After a while, we crossed a wide sand-bar and heard the sound of quarreling in the distance. Slicing across the water, I spied a pair of young men with oars trying to wiggle an old raft to the shore. They were not getting along well. As I drew closer, I recognized the shorter one. I recognized him but could not identify him-- I knew I had seen him. Not only that, I knew that I had cared about him! He was a kid I liked but I did not know how. I thought of every camper I had seen while I was at Kinawind (or tried); then I flashed through my Judson Collin memories. No... he looked somewhat like George but he was too old.
Fred and I asked them if they needed any help but by that time their coordination had improved. A man came onto their pier to guide them in-- he looked just old enough to be their father but his beard was gray. He, too, had something of the familiar in him. Then, a boxer ran onto the pier. Something was right about the boxer too. I could not place any of their faces.
Finally, Fred asked the man how Heidi was.
*click* *click* *click* The boy I like is David. The taller one is his non-identical twin, Drew. Their Dad is Jeff DeMoss and their dog is named Tunza. Tunza smells of fish, likes to give uninvited kisses and kicks vigorously when you rub his belly. Heidi DeMoss has a Masters in Christian Education. She recommended my ex-girlfriend to her church job-- in fact, my ex lived with them for a year. They are wonderful people who I will perpetually miss--- and I don't believe I was recognized. In fact, I preferred it that way. I made the "okay" sign and swung my boat back into the glassier parts of the lake. I started to paddle, unconsciously, away from the scene in deep thought-- away from memories of Ashley and into the beauty of that day. Later, I made a solo landing on "Froggy Island" and admired all of the mushrooms, there, that no one else was seeing. Mushrooms... we saw so many beautiful mushrooms, I wish I could dwell on only those. This, itself, is a mushroom to me-- the fruit of submerged associative networks. I fall in love and learn someone else's life and then when she has gone I am left with these experiences... but so seldom such a chance encounter with real people. I did not want it to go to waste. [room for expansion]
I saw the other living man I want to be more like. His name is David, too... and I like him. He taught me Writing Center Rhetoric, then hired me as a peer consultant a few months later. He was director before I left and left for another position at the university before I was finished. I made an appointment with Dave expecting to talk to him about how to start a degree in Writing & Rhetorical Theory. Before I made the journey-- and before I even made my trip to Kinawind, I felt a strong tug to seriously consider an MFA~ in spite of my own tentativeness up to this point, in spite of not having any promise of success... in spite feeling as if I've already cheated myself. No. I finally hit that point where... I am willing to take a year or two to just work on the portfolio, so long as I can make a living. I was ready to defend myself to Dave... for a little while. Just until he reassured me how much smarter it would be to go into Rhetorical Theory.
But Dave has an MFA... I had forgotten that. Our conversation took a turn I did not expect: I have his blessing. He wants me to keep him abreast. Also, he keeps a drum in his office (just saying).
Are these spots short enough? I am hot and tired... moving on...
Here's a short story: once upon a time, my boss gave me an RFP for a grant that is due at the end of this week. Rather than start immediately on it, I found other things that seemed more pressing. Then, I spent what felt like a prudent amount of time on research and planning, only to come-up empty and feel even more unsure. I e-mailed my boss for guidance. Instead, I received notification of a performance review he had given of me on the AmeriCorps website. He said almost nothing about my job as volunteer coordinator, focusing instead on how I just stayed busy but did not take initiative-- that i had failed to deliver on this grant. So, I had a meeting with him: face to face. It was actually a good talk; it felt like a real wake-up call. He said I was too caught-up in the minutia and that I failed to get the results the organization needed. He said my writing was excellent and I took things seriously... but that he didn't want to "shit-can" me. I seemed unable to work without close supervision. I was hurt but decided to finish the grant. I quit worrying about getting adequate support from research and wrote the damn thing MY way. I found that I liked my way. So does my Boss-- he high-fived me. So what the FUCK was stopping me in the first place?
I saw my spiritual director (this week was packed with revelations... shall I go on?) -- and he made some distinctions I needed. He said that it was possible to care without being attached. He also wondered if I was "becoming" my projects--- that I was letting these projects become representations of myself and, therefore, making myself anxious about their direction. We spoke of many things in this vein... but I wanted to take note of that distinction: attachment and caring are not synonymous.
I read an article on codependence. It made me sad first for myself and then even more for my mother. I finally saw that what afflicts me is not intrinsic. It is just a pattern so deeply rutted that it would appear to be part of my landscape. New paths can be blazed... flesh that out yourselves.
A young man named Elijah told me that I should take care of the little things and God would show me a big thing that would blow me mind. God has shown me several medium-sized things that added together are keeping me stoked. The time for bed draws near but I wanted to let you all know that the Wednesday nights remain intense. Mike Coller talked and prayed with me this week; I talked about how I was leaning toward believing that I am called to be a writer-- partly because I've actually known it for a while. I was hoping there was an "easier" way (that sentiment is getting more and more foreign as my true desire becomes clearer). Mike spoke-out in support... though he had a small prophesy of his own to share (*tingle*)-- he said he kept seeing me as a father-figure (*BIG TINGLE* --these are starting to look like more than coincidence... and I love it...). I commented that it might be a reassurance-- that it's not too late to become a good example again... or that I am wired for family life and I just got things out of order [room for expansion there, too] Excuse my patchy paragraph, folks... that's just how it's coming out tonight.
The pivotal moment was on Friday at the praise concert. I had a great week on trumpet and my tone continues to gain power even as I grow my improvisational capacity (which reminds me of yet ANOTHER thing... that I'll share another time). Sitting next to the new piano player, I lifted up my hands as the Latino band that followed-us began their set. I am not a hands-lifter by nature. That's a new practice, for me, and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who doesn't flat out get that sense "my hands should be in the air right now". Wait to feel that way... then DO IT. It's cool but not if it's fake; never if it's "I wonder if it would be more religious if I..." Nope: don't try to be religious. Wait to be spiritual. Anyway...
When I lifted my hands, I got an image in my mind of an alter with a beam of high-frequency light striking it like a giant sword. I wondered if that was an image I was intended to use in one of my unwritten books. I got a tingle. I asked God if I should chase 'the ninja'-- my name for inertia. I got a big tingle.
That night, I became a career writer.
Still some bad habits to kick, though! That's okay...
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