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/

There's Always Time

Tis' the season: exams, papers, finals, projects, applications... and for this season, there is always something we would rather be doing.  Being with family, wrapping gifts, celebrating with friends, sleeping.  And time is not on our side, in fact we are chasing after time but never seeming to capture it.  There is never enough and it's always fleeting.  Like chasing smoke, the wind, or falling snowflake.

I do not pretend to be an expert at time management.  I am often late for appointments.  I forget deadlines.  I have started and stopped keeping a planner more times than I can count.  I don't wear a watch (but in the time of cell phones, who does anymore?).  Time rules and ruins my life just as it does everyone else.  I detest the feeling as if I am not in charge of the time that I have.  I will admit, there is a comfort of surrender to the fact that I am not in charge of my time.  I am responsible for making the time I have as saturated as possible with all the things I value: people I love and care about, old friends and strangers, grace, beauty, and abundance of love.  These are inexhaustible resources, when time is lacking.  I am not responsible for the ticking clock, I couldn't stop it if I tried, I am responsible for the fullness I grant to time.  And not a full schedule, but full of what I love and value.

I think about the book of Ecclesiastes,  a piece of Hebrew wisdom literature, when I think of time.  There is a fullness of time presented here since there is a time for everything and a season for every occupation.   Part of living into this, and I am still working here, believe me, is allowing each season to have its fullness and not bringing other expectations to the time we have.  The "I would rather..." ruins the time I have.

So, while I am blogging instead of: drying my hair, studying for my final in two hours, shopping online for last minute gifts... I trust I am right where I need to be.  Today I will try to hold this in mind as I read my friend's status updates which claim much more fun activities then me as I plug away on my responsibilities.  I will be thankful for the fullness of time, in each sense.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to rest and a time to test.  A time to write and a time to refrain from writing.  A time to learn and a time to practice that learning, a time to break down and a time to build up.

May the time we have been given this season be enough.

September Firsts

"No one can possibly know what is about to happen: it is happening, each time, for the first time, for the only time." -James Baldwin

I often spill coffee on myself.  Often.  Like, almost daily.  The most embarrassing of coffee spills are the ones going straight down my shirt (due to my faulty drinking skills, a hole in the lip, or a loose lid on my coffee shop paper cup).  Being a <ahem> woman of a curvy persuasion and a Seminary student in the same breath, drawing undue attention to that region has always been a source of anxiety.

Which is exacerbated in times when I am meeting people for the first time.  Impressions are lasting, especially the first ones.  And I, sometimes, flub these up completely.  I once had a good friend from college relay to me our first conversation.  I was absolutely mortified by the words that escaped my mouth.  How she ever decided to be my friend after that, I will never know.  She is a more gracious woman than I.

In any case, this particular morning I was walking to school to greet new, wide-eyed, incoming students.  Ceremonially, I dribbled down my shirt, which was white, of course.  I imagined (and my imagination OFTEN gets me in trouble) scarring the impression of these vulnerable students for the rest of their time at Seminary.  I will never know why I view my opinion of myself to be so important.  When I remember coming to Seminary for the first time, the whole first day was an absolute blur.  The woman greeting me could have been made of coffee and I still wouldn't have noticed.

My first day of classes I spilled again down my shirt, and then hours later on my jeans.  First classes, initial peeks at syllabuses, both warm and cautious greetings to my classmates, all wore on me.  Least of all my own anxieties about beginning another year of study.  I found my study carrel, in the stacks of the library for an hour of quiet.  I cracked the window to let in the late summer breeze.  And in blessing, I spilled three drops on its sunny sill with hope and anticipation for the firsts September brings.

One Big Wilderness, 3 canoes, 6 men, and me.

“While we are born with curiosity and wonder and our early years full of the adventure they bring, I know such inherent joys are often lost. I also know that, being deep within us, their latent glow can be fanned to flame again by awareness and an open mind.” - Sigrud Olson 

I recently returned to normal life after a week in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.  As the title of this blog alludes, for this adventure, I was in the company of four other Seminary students and two knowledgeable, flexible guides.  All of them men.  And me.  I have been to the BWCAW before, but never in this configuration of talents, gifts, and well, gender.  On this kind of adventure, the very best and worst of these people who are formed into a team are revealed, as are the best and worst of the self.

When we started I was tired.  Mostly I was tired of thinking.  I was tired of living in my head; of thinking, wondering, reading, learning... all pieces of my everyday urban-student-life that I love.  But after one very long year of it, I was worn.  I didn't want to think.  I just wanted to be.  And to be challenged in a way that didn't live in my head.  To be challenged not in the depth, originality, or informed-ness of my thinking but in the strength of my body and the ferocious nature of my wonder-ing soul. 

As the trip went on I eased into this different rhythm.  Distractions shifted from ringing phones, bleeping computers, alerts, emails and the cacophony of busy.... to the sound of the water droplets from my paddle, the lap of the waves, the call of the loon.  My eyes feasted on soaring eagles, enormous and ancient evergreens and cedars, rock faces, clear water and sun. And I could just be.  

In between and amidst my unplugging, I plugged into conversation and journeying with (quite literally) my trip-mates.  Over trail coffee (boil the water, throw in the grounds.  Strain through the pot spigot and crunch the grounds.  The added texture just adds to the rocket fuel nature of the brew) we would rest from the day's journey and wonder at where we were, together and apart.  Lines of connection between experiences were drawn.  Thoughts of wonder built upon each other.  We also laughed, which was grand.

And now I am back to my urban life.  Back to work, and study, and a different, but transformed wondering.  What I will not journey apart from is connection and the space between one and the other is sacred and wonder-full ground.  

(Pictures were taken by my very talented new friend and trip participant Jason Mendoza)