From Friday to Friday, 9

[When whatever ends up on my phone, ends up here.]

Today I am Writing: On Puzzles

I recently remembered that at some point in my childhood, puzzles were existent enough that my dad made us a puzzle board, on which we could lay out our pieces and then move them intact, if the other surfaces were needed. I had forgotten this, but there it was, returned to me, like a missing puzzle piece of my very own life.

I recently remembered this because I recently bought a box of 12 puzzles, a family pack of scenes.

I recently bought a box of 12 puzzles because I had a dream, wherein there was a giant room that belonged to me, within which were all kinds of things left by others. Many of those things made no sense, and I was working diligently to remove them, to pack them off to the trash. Off to the side, however, stood a stack of puzzles that I had not yet had time to put together. The dream said: Now is the time.

So I got myself a box of 12 puzzles, set them out on my kitchen table, and got to work.

I learned many things from the process of putting together those puzzles. I started with what I already knew: the best way to start is to lay out the frame. But then I learned that bit by bit--and often quite slow--you have to use the clues you have. I learned that sometimes you have to work in one section only, but if you do that, one piece will lead to another piece and suddenly multiple sections have come together, momentum building to the point of nearing completion. I learned that you always need to keep the big picture in mind. And I learned that it is work to persevere in, otherwise it is not much fun. (Because who wants to do an easy puzzle?! Boring.)

Today I sit at my desk to do my thinking/reading/writing. I start with my outline, pick up where I left off last night. It leads me to have a question, and I google-scholar search it. It leads me to a book, which leads me to another book, which leads me to another. Idea upon idea, building, forming, filling in the frame. It turns out that writing a book and puzzle-putting-together is essentially the same task. And I am not surprised when the ideas and the questions reveal me to my very own self.

I think about how this book will be the big picture that I can see, now. And I can see how this book might lead to another, as I put together pieces that lead me to a bigger picture of myself, the world, and my place in it.

And I think about how my part is just one piece of a bigger story, a Greater Puzzle being worked out in time and place. I think of how we each have a piece to contribute, how it is important to steward our piece well.

I think: The Puzzle Maker sees us and says, "Here is the Gift! Persevere."

"We are here because we are born with the capacity to find the hidden light in all events and all people, to lift it up and make it visible once again and thereby to restore the innate wholeness of the world...This task is called tikkun olam in Hebrew. It's the restoration of the world.

And this is, of course, a collective task. It involves all people who have ever been born, all people presently alive, all people yet to be born. We are all healers of the world...It's not about healing the world by making a huge difference. It's about healing the world that touches you, that's around you."*

*from Becoming Wise: An Inquiry into the Mystery and Art of Living, Krista Tippett, p. 25

Today I am Writing: On What Makes Us

I have never seen him smile.

The email comes through my inbox:
"The book you have requested is on hold."

I take my library card and leave my office, climb down the stairs and around the massive building just across the sidewalk, up and through the revolving door. I make my way to the desk, where he sits.

He is always polite. His grave eyes ask with his low voice how he can help me. He takes my card, runs it through his machine. He gets the information he needs, and stands.

I watch him walk to the back. There is pain in his body, but I do not think he knows. I think to myself, "I wonder what has made him?"

(Do I know what has even made me? The unpacking and the unraveling and the digging down to uncover the stones, the ones I have collected. Kept. I get closer, but the work leaves me hungering for the Needle in the only vein that's left.)

He helps me check out my books. He asks if I need a receipt? No, thank you though, I say. He asks if I need a bag? No, thank you, I am fine, I reply.

His body is all sigh, and I lift my chin a bit to signal my once-again gratitude. I take the books home.

I read:
Sometimes we wear masks
Not with deceptive intent
Not even to shield faces from the sun
But the within from the without
Or save the day from the gaze of yesterday
We wear masks
The better to dance the big masquerade of just living*

I think: We make ourselves, don't we?

(I look in my own face and ask: Will you accept what you have crafted with your own hands? Or is there more waiting beyond this place, for when you decide to release what you are holding?)

*Birth of a Dream Weaver: A Writer's Awakening, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o, p. 39

From Friday to Friday, 8

[When whatever ends up on my phone, ends up here.]

Today I am Writing: On Rainy Days

I went away for a week, and then I needed a week to recover. All the catching up and the re-orienting can really wear a girl down. Then there was a sunny beautiful weekend, and still not one word was added to the book my summer is supposed to be writing. Thoughts festered beneath the surface though, waiting.

Now it is yet another week. And, it is raining.

It is the kind of rain I like, the soothing falling down kind (not the frantic whipping around kind).

I hunker down inside of my cottage. I listen to the air settling against my skin. I breathe the walls, releasing their scenty secrets of ages old. The cars along the road outside sing to me as they pass, their tires spraying mist instead of grinding down the stones.

The nuances of rhythm and pitch surround me, every open window adding in a layer of meaning. It is like the earth is breathing so that we all can hear it. It is like an invitation.

I sit down at my desk, and enter in.

Today I am Writing: On Community

I got home late on Friday afternoon, cracked open a beer, and sat down at my table. It had been a long week and I hadn't thought much beyond this moment, but I looked at the night ahead and thought, "an introvert evening it is."

Then suddenly there was a text, from the friend, to the smallish group of friends, saying:

"We are making tacos--want to make it a potluck?"

Text after text came in, "I have some cheese!" and "We will bring lettuce" and "I will grill peppers" winging through my quiet home.

I thought, "Well, I have tomatoes needing to be used..." and I texted then too, saying, "I can make some pico..."

I chopped some things up quick and squirted everything with lime. I pulled from my refrigerator a jar of pickled jalapenos and a few stray tortillas, and then I traveled across town. When I arrived my friends all cheered, and then I loaded up my plate with the most delicious accouterments a taco has ever seen, and got myself some water. Then we talked and we laughed and we ate, we reminisced. Before long we decided to walk around the block, as the sun laced the sky with ribbons of disrobing color, as a baby frog hopped across the sidewalk and birds squawked overhead.

In the middle of it all I got a call, from the friend with the new-ish babe. Another of our circle was suddenly in the hospital, with kidney stones. My friend was thinking to go watch her boys for a bit on Saturday morning; could I watch her girl?

So this morning kind of early, I loaded up some laundry and the coffee still in my cup, and went up the street. My friend and I chatted while she finished her yogurt, and then she got in her car and left. The babe and I went on the porch, we called my mom. We played and laughed and bounced on our strong legs. And when the babe got fussy, in that "I want to sleep but need you to help me" kind of way, we worked it out, until fast asleep, she was.

My friend returned, having taken the other friend's child for a long walk around his neighborhood. I got the laundry out of the drier, folded hers and put it on her bed while she changed the newly wakened babe. We talked a bit, about the things we'd missed since our mid-week walk, and then I left, for groceries and getting on with my day.

It wasn't all that dramatic, these spontaneous weekend events. But it reminded me of something I read recently, how when a person is in need, "all that will do anything for you is some cool water, held out by someone who has stopped everything else in order to look after you*."

I thought of the ways I am looked after, here in this community of mine. I thought of how I look after others.

And I thought: it wasn't all that dramatic, these spontaneous weekend events, but it was us, holding each other together.

*An Altar in the World, Barbara Brown Taylor, p. 172

From Friday to Friday, 7

[When whatever ends up on my phone, ends up here.]