[When whatever ends up on my phone, ends up here.]
Friday, November 24, 2017
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Today I am Writing: On Perspective
Sometimes in the mornings, just as the sun is rising, I go out for a walk.
I lather myself up in warm, pull on my trainers, and head out the door. My path is always different, but in this place of mountainous terrain there is always up and there is always down.
There was the morning where I followed the sky, rolling heavy gray parting ways with blue and light. I found myself up at the very top, where I could see the world. The sun glazed along the valley, the landscape literally aglow.
This morning I don't quite work up that far. I choose a new path and stay in the mid-range, weaving my way back and forth through waking-up streets. I notice houses from the back that I've seen a hundred times from the front. I notice trucks I have watched pass my house, nestled into driveways. I notice that though I am in shadow, I can see the bare edge of the valley below, glowing with a sun I cannot feel.
I keep walking downward then, making my way toward home. I feel muscles in my legs that are different than the ones I felt on the upward way. I think about how I need to work them all.
I think about the realities of my now, sitting solidly against my past and my soon. I think of the moments of joy, risk, pain, beauty, fear, hope, longing. I think of how they are--in each and every oneness--opportunity to turn my eyes to the source of Light that starts beyond myself, stirring deep inside of me.
I think of how there is always a perspective to be found that sets the world aglow, no matter where my shadow. It might take me up to find it, it might take me down, but always: It is There.
I lather myself up in warm, pull on my trainers, and head out the door. My path is always different, but in this place of mountainous terrain there is always up and there is always down.
There was the morning where I followed the sky, rolling heavy gray parting ways with blue and light. I found myself up at the very top, where I could see the world. The sun glazed along the valley, the landscape literally aglow.
This morning I don't quite work up that far. I choose a new path and stay in the mid-range, weaving my way back and forth through waking-up streets. I notice houses from the back that I've seen a hundred times from the front. I notice trucks I have watched pass my house, nestled into driveways. I notice that though I am in shadow, I can see the bare edge of the valley below, glowing with a sun I cannot feel.
I keep walking downward then, making my way toward home. I feel muscles in my legs that are different than the ones I felt on the upward way. I think about how I need to work them all.
I think about the realities of my now, sitting solidly against my past and my soon. I think of the moments of joy, risk, pain, beauty, fear, hope, longing. I think of how they are--in each and every oneness--opportunity to turn my eyes to the source of Light that starts beyond myself, stirring deep inside of me.
I think of how there is always a perspective to be found that sets the world aglow, no matter where my shadow. It might take me up to find it, it might take me down, but always: It is There.
Friday, November 17, 2017
Friday, November 10, 2017
Today I am Writing: On Living in a Football Town
Three or so Saturday mornings ago I was sitting against the wall in my local cafe, waiting for my Americano to-go, when I noticed what appeared to be a lot of out-of-towners oogling over the menu options and just seeming generally out of place. I looked deeper out of my "It is Saturday morning, I am not awake yet, and I don't want anyone to bother me" shades to notice that they were all dressed in what appeared to be football-fan-attire.
I rolled my eyes back further into my head and hoped it made me invisible.
After the barrista came from behind the counter, working her way around the ooglers in order to place my coffee into my hand with an air of "we have to stick together," I walked back home and vowed not to leave again, all weekend.
Because this is what you do, when you live in a football town. You plan your life around when the people will be out of the stadium versus when they will be in. As soon as kick-off occurs, you throw your bag in the car and wing over to the grocery store as quickly as you can. You knock through aisles, tossing things into your cart that up-until-this-moment you didn't even know existed, just to get out of there with something you can survive on all week, and fast.
And when in the following weeks the students who keep you in the know tell you that the game is going to be away, you breathe. Deeply. You go to the store whenever you want to. There is no plan. Only, Freedom.
But then, there's a Friday, and you're writing, and your brain is tired, and you need a "let the ideas germinate" break, and so you decide to jump in your car and go run your errands only to remember--alas, far too late--that it is...
HOMECOMING WEEKEND.
You feel a great impulse to warn everyone you know, so you text your friend from the store: "I highly suggest you do not go out today. Kohl's, for example, is losing its mind." (Kohl's, of all places, being a destination spot for a return to good old State?)
And then you zip the neck of your coat up high and your sunglasses on tight, pat your uninitiated car on the hood with an affirming, "we're from New Jersey, we know what we're dealing with," and move on through.
You reach and pull and procure all the things you came out to do, and then you return home. You fight the urge to take a nap, and instead pour yourself a whisky. And then, you go back to writing. In your house. For the whole weekend.
Because you live in a football town, and this is what you do.
I rolled my eyes back further into my head and hoped it made me invisible.
After the barrista came from behind the counter, working her way around the ooglers in order to place my coffee into my hand with an air of "we have to stick together," I walked back home and vowed not to leave again, all weekend.
Because this is what you do, when you live in a football town. You plan your life around when the people will be out of the stadium versus when they will be in. As soon as kick-off occurs, you throw your bag in the car and wing over to the grocery store as quickly as you can. You knock through aisles, tossing things into your cart that up-until-this-moment you didn't even know existed, just to get out of there with something you can survive on all week, and fast.
And when in the following weeks the students who keep you in the know tell you that the game is going to be away, you breathe. Deeply. You go to the store whenever you want to. There is no plan. Only, Freedom.
But then, there's a Friday, and you're writing, and your brain is tired, and you need a "let the ideas germinate" break, and so you decide to jump in your car and go run your errands only to remember--alas, far too late--that it is...
HOMECOMING WEEKEND.
You feel a great impulse to warn everyone you know, so you text your friend from the store: "I highly suggest you do not go out today. Kohl's, for example, is losing its mind." (Kohl's, of all places, being a destination spot for a return to good old State?)
And then you zip the neck of your coat up high and your sunglasses on tight, pat your uninitiated car on the hood with an affirming, "we're from New Jersey, we know what we're dealing with," and move on through.
You reach and pull and procure all the things you came out to do, and then you return home. You fight the urge to take a nap, and instead pour yourself a whisky. And then, you go back to writing. In your house. For the whole weekend.
Because you live in a football town, and this is what you do.
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Today I am Writing: On the Love of Babes
Yesterday I arrived at the home of my friend (recently rendered unable to drive by a bit of surgery) in order to teach her little ones their weekly round of piano.
I was met at the door by a procession. First came the next to youngest, carrying a plate covered in brownie, high and proud. She was followed by her sister older, carrying me a mug of tea.
("You always give me tea at your house," she says; "why wouldn't I give you some when you come to mine?")
The love on their faces nearly levels me.
Later the littlest one brings me a picture of an eagle, colored energetically. She shows me the talons, the only spot of red. "See those?" she says; "that's where the eagle is angry." Maybe it's because we've been dealing in feelings-turned-piano sounds of late, but, "it's for you," she says.
I teach them then, one by one, while the others hover, watching, lounging over the back of the couch with smiles and relaxation wide. Lastly I teach the boy, the oldest one of these little ones, getting older by the moment.
"Play the Maple Leaf Rag, can you?" he says. I do, and he watches with those eyes that take everything in, and then we play his song in 5/4 and I say "man, you have got to make a commitment, are you doing this piano thing or not? and "yes!" he says, immediate. And then I get my coat and I chat with my friend and I pack up my things and the children run all around, and then there is the tea-drinking one, bringing me a picture she has drawn for me, a piano with music on it, a complexly layered heart, and many words of I-value-you care.
And then I'm out the door and heading to my car, and there is the door opening again and the boy sticking his head out, just to say "Bye Lauren!" one more time. And I wave and I say "have a good week!" and "you too!" he says, and it is easy and far more life-giving than I have the capacity to understand why.
I drive away, my heart warmed up, the love of babes a crucial thing.
I was met at the door by a procession. First came the next to youngest, carrying a plate covered in brownie, high and proud. She was followed by her sister older, carrying me a mug of tea.
("You always give me tea at your house," she says; "why wouldn't I give you some when you come to mine?")
The love on their faces nearly levels me.
Later the littlest one brings me a picture of an eagle, colored energetically. She shows me the talons, the only spot of red. "See those?" she says; "that's where the eagle is angry." Maybe it's because we've been dealing in feelings-turned-piano sounds of late, but, "it's for you," she says.
I teach them then, one by one, while the others hover, watching, lounging over the back of the couch with smiles and relaxation wide. Lastly I teach the boy, the oldest one of these little ones, getting older by the moment.
"Play the Maple Leaf Rag, can you?" he says. I do, and he watches with those eyes that take everything in, and then we play his song in 5/4 and I say "man, you have got to make a commitment, are you doing this piano thing or not? and "yes!" he says, immediate. And then I get my coat and I chat with my friend and I pack up my things and the children run all around, and then there is the tea-drinking one, bringing me a picture she has drawn for me, a piano with music on it, a complexly layered heart, and many words of I-value-you care.
And then I'm out the door and heading to my car, and there is the door opening again and the boy sticking his head out, just to say "Bye Lauren!" one more time. And I wave and I say "have a good week!" and "you too!" he says, and it is easy and far more life-giving than I have the capacity to understand why.
I drive away, my heart warmed up, the love of babes a crucial thing.
Friday, November 3, 2017
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