Falling Forward

For the first time in many years, I fell downstairs and skinned my knee.  Unfortunately, I did it while I was holding a cup of coffee in my hand.  At the very last minute, I remember making the conscious decision that it was more important for me to catch myself than to keep my coffee.  And it was good coffee.  I had splurged that day and had bought a coffee from the local coffee shop.  Ah, the simple joy in a good americano.  And the great embarrassment as I had to clean up the mess on the carpeted floor post-spill.  Of course I was at the church.  My very kindly janitor, when I apologized for the spill, shrugged.  Bless him.  And then in his quiet way, there were rugs there the next time I passed by.

Gentle readers, I have blogged before about being a total klutz.  It's kind of implied in the blog title, if all of my entries begin with a blunder.   The physical act of falling has gotten me thinking.  As a child, falling was not uncommon.  My relatives like to remind me that I was uncommonly good at it: climbing, running, falling-- generally rushing about for a better angle or a greater adventure.  So much so, they gave me the nickname "Crash".  That's my favorite story to hear about at weddings. (sarcasm here)  These days when I visit the old, I am struck at how terrifying falling is for them.  When a fall could become the difference between remaining independent and becoming dependent on someone else for care.  And me, somewhere in between the age strata.  I am no longer as young as I was, my body reminded me of that when I got up to brush myself off.  Though I was still able to resume a normal walking gait in a few steps.  My pride was aching more than my body.  Also I missed my coffee.

Falling.  Weeks now after my tumble down the stairs, I stretch in my office chair, no longer sore.  A thought occurred to me, not all falling is bad.  You can fall in love, fall to sleep, and in autumn clocks, fall back.  Falling in love is a dizzying affair (my favorite St. Paul sidewalk quote "a person in love is like a dog on a walk-- you can't tell them that the world isn't new), and, if we are very lucky, it can find its grounding on a foundation worth building.  Falling to sleep is one of my favorite things, I fight it off often (like now) with caffeine.  And falling back in daylight's savings, well, it's a way to be orientated to the way the world (and the light levels) change. 

Falling is a change.  And it's disruptive.  Sometimes it's a disruptive reminder to slow down, look and see, and be more careful for the last step down, eh?

Highlights

One morning, as I was rushing to a meeting, I grabbed for a pen.  Having got the wrong one, I then could not fit the original pen into my tea tin/pen cup.  I didn't give it much thought until after the meeting when I decided to purge the non-working pens.  On examining the contents I found:

• one blinking bike light
• one pencil
• 7 Sharpies, of differing colors and tip size 
• 3 blue pens
• 2 red pens
• 21 black pens
• 3 paperclips
• 1 rubber band
• 4 highlighters, 3 of which are orange
• post-it page markers
• one flattened souvenir penny from the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago

And only two "non-working" pens.  Just another day, right?  Unfortunately I choose to be philosophical about many small things, and then think to blog about them afterwards.  And then some poor person reads my small musings. (this means you)  

First, I thought, what in the world do I need with 21 black pens?  And where did they all come from?  Only a few of them would be ones which I would bought myself.  They must have come from somewhere-- been a marker of where I have been and which and where I have stolen.  I sometimes buy pens, most times I guess I walk away with them, and then there is the odd time where I purposefully pocket them.  I kind of think pens should be common property, their ownership ought to be more fluid.  If ever we were to actualize the Acts practice of "sharing all things in common," I suggest we start with pens.

Second curious thing, why do I need 4 highlighters?  It hit me then.  Grad students have highlighters.  Lots of them.  Everywhere.  Handy for their hours spent reading and studying-- when they find a gem (at least, when I do) I want to tag it as wise, noteworthy, questionable or difficult. 

And now what I am to do?  I have, at my "job" a pen jar suited for a grad student, and not a hard-working beneficial member of a working church community.  Why do I need so many highlighters?

After several days of pondering this, I came to a conclusion.  I do still need highlighters, but of a different kind.  My primary job right now is listening to stories, hearing how people's faith has been formed, and as they expound on their understanding of themselves and their community.  And sometimes for that I need a highlighter, but one that works on the human heart.  What connects one story to another, this comment to the one made twenty minutes before.  A highlighter which notices particularities and glimpses of lived grace-- highlighters which point to God's Spirit at work.

Also, I am still a student.  And I will always be a student.  There is always more to learn, and only some of it is on a printed page.  Most of the wisdom to be learned, is written on the human heart.

In the sweet meantime

"Never let an opportunity to see anything beautiful, for beauty is God's handwriting." --Ralph Waldo Emerson

I am realizing, these days, that I am distressingly dependent on my phone.  Or, that is, the small computer in my pocket which also makes phone calls.  My new digs does not have internet, so my phone becomes my connection to email, social media, people, networks, support, sanity... I check in with my fiance via text, I confirm a meeting with my grandmother via phone, I talk with my mother through email, I giggle at a picture of my niece and nephew on facebook.  Without my phone, I am truly disconnected, marooned out on the prairie from those I love.  (which I know is not totally true, but a lot rides on such a small device)

And I admit these days I have become a fiddler.  Always checking and rechecking.  Any small blip is a connection with those who feel far away.  This is a sobering confession I make in hopes for some accountability-- I want so badly to be someone who is "all there", very present with the people and in the places which I find myself.  Instead of fiddling with the buttons and sending small half-wishes to be elsewhere.  And maybe the fiddling is the attempt to be "all there"-- in all the theres which call me: there, and over there, and near there, and somewhere there... But they compete hopelessly with my very real, here.

I was waiting the other day.  Really waiting.  Not fiddling (I had to stop myself in the process), but sitting and being in anticipation for my coming ride.  While waiting, I looked and saw.  A chorus of robins making their way from one tree to the other across the street.  I watched them swing back and forth like watching a airborne tennis match.  I wondered if in our small computers we have lost the capacity to wait, and to have our waiting be its fullest possible.  I waited and found delight in the aerial parade of birds, with actual tweets. They were the small blessing of that "there" of which I missed most of the blessing; for even waiting time has its fullness.

New Stories and Stranger Winds

"For each new morning with its light, for rest and shelter of the night.  For health and food, for love and friends.  For everything thy goodness sends." --Ralph Waldo Emerson

So here I am, an urban girl in a very small town.  For a year.  I have heard more than once "you can do anything for a year", but I would be remiss if I would deny living in a town like this makes me nervous.  No doubt it's a very different pace.  It's not just the time, the people seem different too.  People small talk with each other without looking at their watches.  How did I forget to small talk in my time in the city?  The landscape is wilder.  The wind is different.  The prairie wind is a stranger, it's relentless and warm still.  It still being fall, it's not unfriendly, though I doubt it will be so accommodating in a few months.

I am learning that my assumptions can get me into trouble.  I have always thought of myself as a small-town girl.  And I think I still am.  But one small town is not the same as all other small towns.  I am beginning to think of mine as quite different than my new small town.  I am, perhaps more accurately, a small-city girl.  A small city which depends on recruiting more to its shores for its income; instead of my new small town which needs to stay put.  It needs to till the ground and keep the land, the land with the curious wind, to keep its company throughout the marked seasons.

It's only a beginning for me.  Small towns have long memories, after all.  Yet, my presence here makes this place different, new.  Which is welcome, I think, there is room here for making newness along with the old, long memory.

And with the welcome, there is coffee.  I have, since my arrival, drank an embarrassing amount of it.  I revel in the attitude around the office "it doesn't take much water to make good coffee."  It doesn't take much to bless beginnings and newness.  Coffee, company, and new (to me) stories is certainly a start.

Travels with Cloe

I hate moving.  Of all the necessary occupations in an adult life, it is by far my least favorite.  This time it was highly necessary.  I left my small urban apartment in exchange for a much larger place in a much smaller town.  My new home is in a town of 1,500.  There are corn fields within in the city limits.  And the pace of life, much slower.

I hate moving, but Cloe, my sixteen year old cat, hates it much more.  She has always, in the eight years of our acquaintance, been a poor traveler.  Usually quiet, she will moan, pace, hiss, and make a horrible un-Cloe sounds.  And she will demand my constant attention; bumping my travel mug of coffee as I sip, and then being surprised when the brown liquid splashes her ears.

There's a thing about pets, their owners usually project something of themselves onto their animals.  You ask most pet owners, and they can put a voice to the reactions of their pets, sometimes with their own accents. My fiancee insists that I have projected my hatred of moving unto Cloe.  Perhaps I have.  I would like to think I have my own proclivity to staying put, being in and creating a "home" where I am, and well, wanting to be comfortable.  And I have always thought my cat shares this home-body spirit.

But this time I may be mistaken.  My normally travel adverse cat slept, SLEPT during our move.  As if she trusted where I was taking her, knowing we would be together at least.  She and I have been on many adventures so far in our time together, this one was just one more.  Perhaps I should have as much trust as she.

My keyboard and me

"One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot is, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time.  Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it all, give it now." -- Annie Dillard

Today I spilled coffee on my laptop keyboard.  If you had been there with me, you would have been astounded by the speed in which I raced to find a napkin for such a small dribble.  After the scamper, the best method of clean up was obviously my cardigan sleeve.  But the whole exchange was not without its elements of hysterics.  Too bad I was in public.  Coffee shop fail.

Me and my keyboard have been through a lot together.  I bought this laptop right before starting grad school.  I wonder how many words it has helped me to articulate.  After considering many pages of brilliant theological thought in papers, not so brilliant Facebook posts, many emails, and a blog entry or two... that's a lot of words and a lot of expression.  So even though my novel project is still gathering dust-- I should own the fact that I am a writer.  I am a writer because I write.  And in the last few years, my thoughts, through their written nature, have found much fullness, indeed: they have found life.

I have been learning that I extend grace to many people-- lastly I extend grace to myself.  I have been holding that dusty novel against myself for years.  (legit, years)  Perhaps my learning for today is that I HAVE been writing.  And through reading all of it, I think one could get a pretty good idea of what my world is like, what goes on between my ears, and what makes my soul sing.  Today I am reminded that my writer-soul has plenty of reason for singing.

Just like love

My companion, coffee, now cold, and I were cruising down the highway when I saw a curious sight.  A "one way" sign with a graffiti tag saying "I <3 Dominic".  Which got me thinking, who is this Dominic?  Does the tagger still love Dominic?  Was it a dizzying intoxication, a dare, or a longer-termed affliction which caused the artist to declare their love in such a way?  Indeed, was there only "one way" to say it?

And maybe it's Valentine's day coming quickly that has me hypersensitive to the love around me.  But not the candy, chocolate, consuming kind-- but the kind which consumes and defines who we are.  I was thinking about the love which surrounds me, in all its expressions.  It seems to me that I spend an awful lot of time thinking about who I am and how I am defined.  What I miss is that I am only defined and gifted identity through the eyes of those who love me.  Who I am is composed of a web of who I love, and who loves me (which is not always the same thing).

I am glad that love is a practice.  A practice which I cannot do in a vacuum, I need the other to practice love, I need a community.  And practice means I can make mistakes, and the grace of how we meet each other held in this web of love means I can grow into who I am to be, and who and how I love shapes me.  There is room in practicing to be proficient, and to be insufficient, each held with their intention in mind.

These are the things which strike me today.  This is what I am learning.  How is love shaping you into the person you are meant to be?

For a collection of visuals on the subject: http://pinterest.com/erikagrace/just-like-love/