tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-175192812024-03-12T16:51:37.252-06:00last answers?angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.comBlogger211125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-81245868644835514932010-08-26T07:20:00.000-05:002010-08-26T10:21:45.737-05:00something new<a href="http://acshhmidt.blogspot.com/">here.</a>angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-76202338609905986092010-08-09T08:23:00.005-05:002010-08-09T09:30:02.212-05:00“The long silences need to be loved, perhaps<br />more than the words<br />which arrive<br />to describe them<br />in time.” Franz wright (“home remedy”)<br /><br />***<br /><br />To only read what he has written seems like cheating. So I begin in the middle. I do not have the words now, yet at the moment I wonder if digging out from under strange grief and the impossible heaviness of fear could bring me closer to them. <br />He told me I should be an archeologist. I think I would like this science--it does remind me of counseling, of storytelling. Knowing there are things that tell some kind of tale buried under the years of sediment. <br /><br />When you go digging, what will you find? Something that changes everything about what we thought of these now landscapes; that reminds us that even when memory fails, there are traces, there are tangible things left behind. <br /><br />My friend tells me that whale bones and fossilized roots of mandrake trees were found in the Sahara. Buried under layers of dirt and sand, sitting in their long silence and waiting to be discovered, for the words of their story to be found. Maybe this is near where Leah and Rachel were in love with the same man, and used the love tree to conceive children. A legacy of twelve sons, real people, becoming twelve tribes--a whole nation. Carbon imprints don’t tell all that went on in that family. <br /><br />***<br /><br />Night sitting outside on our small patch of lawn behind the apartment building. Closed in by the tall multi-families. Walls of brick on one side, parking lot and the metro line on the other. We take a six foot diameter circle of the freshly mowed grass and live us a summer night. Brownies and cans of PBR. <br /><br />The story of our time together and conversation, unless I record it here, now, lives only in memory. And I doubt that someone would wonder, when they dig up that landfill and find those few aluminum cans among hundreds of thousands, about our night under the invisible stars reading poetry, and talking about archaeology, and whale bones and mandrake roots that someone found in the middle of the desert. <br /><br />A place to start: write down some bits and pieces and tell, in between the long silences, a moment of what has been lived.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-68382077164275054702010-06-28T11:43:00.000-05:002010-06-28T13:12:53.540-05:00Some People <br />by Wislawa Szymborska<br />Translated by Joanna Trzeciak<br /><br />Some people fleeing some other people. <br />In some country under the sun <br />and some clouds. <br /><br />They leave behind some of their everything, <br />sown fields, some chickens, dogs, <br />mirrors in which fire now sees itself reflected. <br /><br />On their backs are pitchers and bundles, <br />the emptier, the heavier from one day to the next. <br /><br />Taking place stealthily is somebody's stopping, <br />and in the commotion, somebody's bread somebody's snatching <br />and a dead child somebody's shaking. <br /><br />In front of them some still not the right way, <br />nor the bridge that should be <br />over a river strangely rosy. <br />Around them, some gunfire, at times closer, at times farther off, <br />and, above, a plane circling somewhat. <br /><br />Some invisibility would come in handy, <br />some grayish stoniness, <br />or even better, non-being <br />for a little or a long while.<br /><br />Something else is yet to happen, only where and what? <br />Someone will head toward them, only when and who, <br />in how many shapes and with what intentions? <br />Given a choice, <br />maybe he will choose not to be the enemy and <br />leave them with some kind of life.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-13917530769413411522010-06-28T11:35:00.000-05:002010-06-28T13:17:30.924-05:00unexpected: October 29, 2009Rain for weeks on end, it seems. Month of grays. Long days of work, running late late perpetually late. Trudge up familiar stairs and open the door: glowy dining room, mischievous smiling faces. Joyful greetings for a raining Wednesday night. <br />The table top holds a clutter of laptops, unsteady stacks of books books, family pictures, mini candy bars, bowls of popcorn, mugs of coffee and star crunches. <br /><br />Two watch the World Series in the next room, giggling when the commentator says that one of the players "drips with confidence." We laugh at their laughing, start to compose haiku. It doesn't get far. Later, Halloween costumes are being invented and crafted. <br /><br />Drive home late, it continues to rain. The trees shimmer, there is an eerie fog over the city tonight. <br /><br />Some things I remember. Some things I forget.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-88946617086111232692010-06-10T16:05:00.004-05:002010-06-28T13:46:48.553-05:00where have you been all my life?Thirst<br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />Another morning and I wake with the thirst <br />for the goodness I do not have. I walk <br />out to the pond and all the way God has<br />given us such beautiful lessons. Oh Lord,<br />I was never a quick scholar but sulked <br />and hunched over my books past the hour<br />and the bell; grant me, in your <br />mercy, a little more time. Love for the<br />earth and love for you are having such a<br />long conversation in my heart. Who <br />knows what will finally happen or <br />where I will be sent, yet already I have<br />given a great many things away, expecting<br />to be told to pack nothing, except the<br />prayers which, with this thirst, I am <br />slowly learning.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-45057903896406869252009-10-24T11:35:00.004-05:002009-10-24T11:52:45.735-05:00four1. "...wake up this morning. <br />Purple sky slowly turning golden, <br />distant elms so orange you'd swear they're burning."<br />cowboy junkies<br /><br />2.<span style="font-style:italic;">Mindful</span>-Mary Oliver<br /> <br />Every day<br /> I see or hear<br /> something<br /> that more or less<br /><br />kills me<br /> with delight,<br /> that leaves me<br /> like a needle<br /><br />in the haystack<br /> of light.<br /> It was what I was born for -<br /> to look, to listen,<br /><br />to lose myself<br /> inside this soft world -<br /> to instruct myself<br /> over and over<br /><br />in joy,<br /> and acclamation.<br /> Nor am I talking<br /> about the exceptional,<br /><br />the fearful, the dreadful,<br /> the very extravagant -<br /> but of the ordinary,<br /> the common, the very drab,<br /><br />the daily presentations.<br /> Oh, good scholar,<br /> I say to myself,<br /> how can you help<br /><br />but grow wise<br /> with such teachings<br /> as these -<br /> the untrimmable light<br /><br />of the world,<br /> the ocean's shine,<br /> the prayers that are made<br /> out of grass?<br /><br />3. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTenMfvxACc">i have loved you wrong</a>--the swell season<br /><br />4. <span style="font-style:italic;">dew</span>, by <a href="http://thedasslereffect.wordpress.com/">dassler</a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://thedasslereffect.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/morning-dew-small.jpg?w=500&h=663"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 663px;" src="http://thedasslereffect.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/morning-dew-small.jpg?w=500&h=663" border="0" alt="" /></a>angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-57248150739804599332009-10-09T23:29:00.005-05:002009-10-24T11:24:36.990-05:00hello again.mostly, just go to the end to read the lyrics & listen to "why it matters"<br /><br />please forgive my long absence. i've been hanging with a really great guy, and he takes my attention away from the occasional blog post. planning a wedding: march 20. yay! there's a lot to unpack from the last three months or so, but we've got time. even though this post is not sequential to major life changes or the deep things that i can't yet write about this summer and fall...i'll eventually get there, don't you worry. <br /><br />that said...wow. i heard two pretty amazing talks recently that reminded me. just reminded me, which is why i'm here writing. <br /><br />andy crouch, author of culture making, shared with us about "living more musically." how can we live in such a way that we experience beauty, harmony, and healthy rhythms, rather than the fits and starts and anxiety that we tend to carry around? his whole pseudo sermon was done from the piano, and he integrated some beautiful melody and worship througout. something in it i was so hungry for, something in it touched an ache in my soul that i didn't know was there. <br /><br />he talked some about melody and life in relation to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rWSbWjsbJGw">bach's prelude in C</a>. the piece begins with a basic and simple series of notes, really. as the melody progresses, more complexity and dissonance is added, making the melody more interesting as the journey continues on. then comes the most haunting and dark and beautiful part, but it feels like it is part of a story (the melody) even though it is very dissonant. and it continues to build and grow more complex. finally a beautiful resolution, which is, like he said, something that we are all longing for. <br /><br />it touched something in me because i feel like with starting to counsel and get to hear more stories of things happening in people's lives, the more i see the beauty and sorrow all mashed up together. <br /><br />the second talk he began with a story and a song. the song is called "why it matters". the story is that sara groves went to her mentor, charlie peacock, and asked him why it matters that she was doing the work that she was in writing music. <br /><br />he told her this story: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vedran_Smailovi%C4%87">vedran smailovic</a> was among many who survived the siege of sarajevo. he wanted to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_Eve/Sarajevo_12/24">protest the death of 22 innocent people</a>, so instead of going into the bomb shelters during the shelling of the city, he took his cello and went out to play mozart in the rubble of what had once been a fountain in the city square. below is a picture of him, and the song she wrote. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SuMpziyG3WI/AAAAAAAAAYI/noIPyzMp_v4/s1600-h/Evstafiev-bosnia-cello.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SuMpziyG3WI/AAAAAAAAAYI/noIPyzMp_v4/s320/Evstafiev-bosnia-cello.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396202744007023970" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.last.fm/music/Sara+Groves/_/Why+It+Matters">why it matters</a>--sara groves<br /><br /><blockquote>Sit with me and tell me once again<br />Of the story that's been told us<br />Of the power that will hold us<br />Of the beauty, of the beauty<br />Why it matters<br /><br />Speak to me until I understand<br />Why our thinking and creating<br />Why our efforts of narrating<br />About the beauty, of the beauty<br />And why it matters<br /><br />Like the statue in the park<br />Of this war torn town<br />And it's protest of the darkness<br />And the chaos all around<br />With its beauty, how it matters<br />How it matters<br /><br />Show me the love that never fails<br />The compassion and attention<br />Midst confusion and dissention<br />Like small ramparts for the soul<br />How it matters<br /><br />Like a single cup of water<br />How it matters </blockquote>angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-69158855493466559082009-06-13T19:38:00.002-05:002009-06-13T19:45:52.160-05:00sparklers.we sit on the back porch where i have spent a hundred hours, maybe more. the box of wooden matches has spilled out all over the deck...we shuffle them around with our bare feet, talking over the events of the day, the week, a whole life. <br /><br />a normal week night is anything but normal. <br /><br />strike on box. we start to play with fire. the smell of matches fills the porch. everyone is tired from the demands of life, but it feels like spring outside on this june night, and we see that it should not be spent on tv or early sleep. <br /><br />our friend runs down to the car and comes back triumphant, holding up a slim box with a gleeful smile: sparklers. we attempt to light them simultaneously so that all can sparkle at once, but chaos. everything becomes much more raucous for the next minute or two. summer exuberance. pyrotechnics in the smallest scale possible. just enough--my favorite kind. and laughter. the noises of this night are the kind you'd like to remember for the rest of your life. <br /><br />if you look down over the rail of the deck into the fenced yards below, you see lightening bugs signaling their bright green blinking hellos to each other. somewhere i read that this a communication of danger. i watch them and decide that i'd like to contradict the scientists on this one. i'd like to think of it as their doing the same thing we are--scattered throughout the dark city blocks participating in a contagion of bioluminescent insect friendship. <br /><br />"someone reaching for me now<br />through the dark, reaching for me now<br />you need someone to hear you when you sigh<br />someone to wipe away those tears you cry<br />someone to hold you 'neath the darkened sky<br />and someone to love you more than i..." <br /> alexi murdoch, through the dark. <br /><br />i hope you are getting a chance to occasionally sit on dimly lit porches, wave some sparklers and talk about life during this fine month. it'd be a real pity to miss it. <br /><br />soundtracks:<br /><a href="http://www.myspace.com/aleximurdoch">alexi murdoch: through the dark</a><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jq5ZkF_aHPs&feature=related&pos=9">rachel yamagata: meet me by the water</a><br /><a href="http://www.myspace.com/thecinematicorchestras">cinematic orchestra: to build a home</a><br /><br />and good reads:<br /><a href="http://www.soulemama.com/soulemama/2009/05/soulepapa-blogs-in-reflection.html">soule papa: note to self</a>angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-52524590080431265832009-05-20T23:44:00.002-05:002009-05-20T23:18:35.952-05:00be where you arei am reminded again that we are all full of terror and fury and shame--having been shattered by the fall. we are all caught in the act. we are all scrambling to cover the foibles, the stains and the broken dishes, the lies and the bad decisions. <br /><br />(an aside: i think i need a man who wants to make this into a song—a slow, sad, bluesy song with a slide guitar). <br /><br />but i am also reminded that this isn't where the story ends. hallelujah. <br /><br />she wrote that details matter. otherwise: drop a bomb on all of us. "say yes to life, all of life" she says. say yes to the real things about who we are.* we carry around the details that say life matters and each person matters; the making of music matters--those pictures and memories we carry around matter. even the mistakes. <br /><br />i want to get it down: the knowing look and smile between friends--that moment when we realize that even though the sorrow is killing us, we are going to be OK. this matters. write it down, for goodness sake. <br /><br />it will help us remember in all of our shambles and shitpiles that God is going to help us, like he always does. when we learn to tell the truth and admit our need, we see how Faithfulness works on us without giving up. <br /><br />****<br /><br />in morogoro, tanzania, in the hills called faulkland, i found myself in the middle of a thousand stories with names and sights and people you could never even dream up if you tried. <br /><br />there are the giant racing snails hiding in the blades of grass that cover the hills, waiting for wet sidewalks to travel. there is a small girl named selena, whose tattered light blue dress falls off her shoulder as she dances and laughs. there is a semi-circle of grass thatched huts with a fire burning in the middle, and a woman bending to collect wood. there is a church with no roof surrounded by plantings of pink impatients in the brick red, dusty soil, where women come each afternoon to sit on wooden benches and sing together, over and over: "the blessing of God is around us."<br /><br />i wonder: is it still a story if what came before and what comes next cease to matter? if these memories are enough to take me there, to remind me of my friend saying to me "when you see that place, you can't even cry"? <br /><br />there is a place where the smiles and gentleness of the people in the stories seeped right down into the cracks in my heart and stole it; i think i fell in love for the first time in a long time. <br /><br />****<br /><br />we each have moments like these, don't we? the ones that sneak in and shake the foundations of our hearts in a way that we know we will never be the same. in a way that we are broken and healed all at the same time. <br /><br />in a way that tells us yet again that we can't pretend like none of these things matter. <br /><br /><br /><br />*natalie goldberg <span style="font-style:italic;">writing down the bones</span>angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-9601174856905359472009-05-13T22:36:00.005-05:002009-05-15T14:14:54.563-05:00you may or may not knowyou may or may not know<br />that if you drive along the northern coast of zanzibar--<br />say at 7:45 p.m. on a wednesday night--<br />you'd see people out for an evening stroll. <br /><br />women walking in pairs with bright kangas draped around their shoulders against the slight chill in the air, boys and girls side by side. <br />a man with one hand clasping his arm behind his back, slightly bent forward, <br />going right along and listening to his friend<br />who is walking an old red bicycle and telling a story. <br /><br />you may or may not know that all along that road<br />there are people sitting on front stoops, <br />peering into and out of tiny shops<br />where dim lightbulbs hang from the ceiling and pulse with generator electricity. <br /><br />i bet you didn't know that is what you would see. i didn't either. <br />i didn't expect to see <br />the way the palm trees swayed against the dark sky. <br />the way what might have looked like lush wilderness <br />was mysteriously peopled with these figures <br />illuminated, captured in motion<br />in the headlights of a passing truck.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-60551392605804177772009-05-04T00:23:00.004-05:002009-05-05T20:51:22.810-05:00night prayersthank you <br />keeper of these lenghtening days and maker of <a href="http://thedasslereffect.files.wordpress.com/2009/05/fire-blossoms-small.jpg?w=500&h=750">the blooming trees</a>.<br />thank you <br />one who knit together each and every thing we see,<br />even the ducks that wander in pairs and swim around the fountains in the park.<br /><br />thank you <br />one who provides the things each creature needs--<br />(now more than ever i struggle to pray this--to believe it. <br />kristin asks: what about the girls in sonagacchi? does he not see them? <br />and i think, what about the widows in kibakwe who are suffering with AIDS? <br />i don't know the answer to these.)<br />in spite of not understanding and not knowing how to see or believe,<br />can i still say thank you? <br />and i praise you? <br /><br />can i see that through all these days when i can't find my way home to you<br />you find your way to me? <br /><br />thank you that in the inconsequential and consequential things <br />you still seek and comfort;<br />step by step you show the way. <br /><br />thank you that in you there is no shadow,no shadow of turning. <br />(we know shadows of turning too well; we ache with them. <br />but you will not change your mind about us.) <br /><br />tonight, the prayer is thank you.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-13546026332662184712009-04-25T11:13:00.008-05:002009-04-26T22:58:00.192-05:00in my new earth.<span style="font-style:italic;">Sehnsucht (zane-zoocht)—phenomenon of human longing or yearning; a word with strong overtones of seeking and searching. </span><br /><br />we would all sit in living rooms<br />playing music late into the night. <br />lights down low<br />and everyone's already beloved faces<br />would become even more precious<br />in the safe light. <br />songs becoming new<br />as they do each time people play them together.<br /><br />we would tromp through the fields <br />and sit by the flowing rivers <br />as dawn breaks into a brand new<br />a brand new day. <br />the birds in the evergreens <br />far away from any pavement, any highway.<br />far away from the honking of horns, from <br />sagging power lines,<br />from the industrial gunge. <br /><br />we would sit by a fire <br />far away, out in the woods.<br />piling on the logs so high<br />that our wild spring bonfire<br />would rain sparks upside down<br />floating to the edges of a canopy of trees, <br />up to those other star filled galaxies<br />that look to us like <a href="http://img19.imageshack.us/img19/2706/spaceb.jpg">tiny dots of light</a> <br />above our gathering.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-53858444621149644132009-04-18T22:43:00.003-05:002009-04-18T22:54:52.337-05:00pour me a glass of wine.the thunder is rolling in as we speak. we've been waiting, waiting all day for this storm to show up. turn off that electric noise and listen to the rain finally start to come down. listen to the upstairs neighbors coming home...walkin all around the living room right above you--it's a night to be up and about, you will realize. <br /><br />listen to the blossoms flying off the trees (you have to listen really, really hard). as the wind blows--a remnant of snowstorms coming from the west--listen. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cm53M9PByTA&feature=related">pour me a glass of wine</a> and just listen.<br /> <br />this rainy spring night i decided that i think deep down we are all just saying: tell me a good story. or maybe it's more like: i hope my life is a good story. what do you think of that? <br /><br />my story...on this rainy night, reads that there's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ULBLAglhuts&feature=related">this song</a> that i can't stop listening to (with the rain right there in the background--just so). and keeping me company--maybe more like making me stop and take stock--are some friendly and beautiful thoughts...excerpts from <a href="http://www.overtherhine.com/letters.php">Linford's</a> recent letter: <br /><blockquote>When I was younger I would often write myself short job descriptions. I was thinking out loud about what might be worth hanging a life on, a life I was willing to sign my name to:<br /><br />-Create spaces where good things can happen.<br /><br />-Give the world something beautiful, some gift of gratitude,<br />no matter how insignificant or small.<br /><br />-Write love letters to the whole world.<br /><br />-Build fires outdoors, and lift a glass and tell stories,<br />and listen, and laugh, laugh, laugh. (Karin says I’m still working<br />on this one. She thinks I still need to laugh more, especially at<br />her jokes, puns and witty asides.)<br /><br />-Flip a breaker and plunge the farm into darkness so that the stars can be properly seen.<br /><br />-Do not squander afflictions.<br /><br />-Own the longing, the non-negotiable need to “praise the mutilated world.”<br /><br />-Find the music. <br />...........<br /><br />Music and art and writing: extravagant, essential, the act of spilling something, a cup running over…<br /><br />.......<br /><br />Uncertainty is the essential, inevitable and all-pervasive companion to your desire to make art. And tolerance for uncertainty is the prerequisite to succeeding.<br /><br />A blessing for the writers among us: May all your dead ends be beautiful.<br /></blockquote><br />i wish i had <a href="http://www.theage.com.au/ffximage/2006/01/15/svMAP_wideweb__470x327,2.jpg">a map</a> to get me through all of this. since i don't (really), i guess the best thing to do is go one step at a time. eyes open, and listening.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-66375918730998029182009-04-13T18:35:00.002-05:002009-04-13T19:28:09.273-05:00mid aprilmid april and i woke up this morning to a bird that sounded like laughter. it's getting mighty green around here--that bright, new green. he makes all things new. all this aliveness and flowering makes you not even mind the rain. <br /> <br />i watched a powerful movie on good friday. it's called "<a href="http://www.asweforgivemovie.com/">as we forgive</a>" and it's about healing and reconciliation in the last fifteen or so years in rwanda. it is <a href="http://www.asweforgivemovie.com/trailer.htm">very beautiful</a>. <br /><br />musics. this just in: listen to <a href="http://www.myspace.com/gregoryalanisakov">that moon song</a>. mmmhmmm. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/Sd018krk20I/AAAAAAAAAXg/E4q1ACBOPU4/s1600-h/109_1000-pola.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 329px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/Sd018krk20I/AAAAAAAAAXg/E4q1ACBOPU4/s400/109_1000-pola.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322469649376664386" /></a><br />i love this shot from <a href="http://nishasblogger.blogspot.com/">one</a> of my two favorite photographers. can't wait to see what adventures lie ahead for the <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XE1rRFHjPTc/SeIm8Wyx85I/AAAAAAAABhQ/mn2Ao5WNbGw/s1600-h/IMG_0020.JPG">new camera</a>. <br /><br />here's a shot i like from the <a href="http://thedasslereffect.wordpress.com/">second</a>: <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SePYdqhaT_I/AAAAAAAAAX4/7iPrHByRx0A/s1600-h/chapel-sepia.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SePYdqhaT_I/AAAAAAAAAX4/7iPrHByRx0A/s400/chapel-sepia.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324337188624289778" /></a><br /><br />i've sort of been on a poetry kick lately. a friend that had been blog absent for a good long time made a comeback and shared this. it is so nice, and it says it just right. <br /><br /><blockquote>dove that ventured outside<br />rainer maria rilke<br /><br />dove that ventured outside, flying far from the dovecote:<br />housed and protected again, one with the day, the night,<br />knows what serenity is, for she has felt her wings<br />pass through all distance and fear in the course of her wanderings.<br /><br />the doves that remained at home, never exposed to loss,<br />innocent and secure, cannot know tenderness;<br />only the won-back heart can ever be satisfied: free,<br />through all it has given up, to rejoice in its mastery.<br /><br />being arches itself over the vast abyss.<br />Ah the ball that we dared, that we hurled into infinite space,<br />doesn't it fill our hands differently with its return:<br />heavier by the weight of where it has been.</blockquote>angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-70638709276523805162009-03-31T15:39:00.001-06:002009-03-31T18:24:36.244-06:00I love you, gentlest of Ways,<br />who ripened us as we wrestled with you.<br /><br />You, the great homesickness we could never shake off,<br /><br />you, the forest that always surrounded us,<br />you, the song we sang in every silence,<br />you dark net threading through us...<br /><br />rainer maria rilke. <br />love poems to God.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-56978427324498218212009-03-26T12:34:00.010-06:002009-03-28T00:06:52.760-06:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.idapearle.com/images/gallery/full/seasons-3-full.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 215px; height: 250px;" src="http://www.idapearle.com/images/gallery/full/seasons-3-full.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/Sc2xkXu4vFI/AAAAAAAAAW4/VNfXrSfhRcg/s1600-h/ida+pearle+kites.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 217px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/Sc2xkXu4vFI/AAAAAAAAAW4/VNfXrSfhRcg/s400/ida+pearle+kites.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318101973398502482" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.idapearle.com/gallery-index3.html">ida pearle</a>: season, kites<br />walking in the park this week i have seen a lot of this. <br />spring break = scone baking therapy. new book and happykneesock christmas presents. writing. botanical gardens and cherry blossoms. reading mary oliver & billy collins. conversations about manuals for people. catching up on good posts on <a href="http://paradoxuganda.blogspot.com/">favorite blogs</a>. and music: <br /><a href="http://www.myspace.com/johannjohannsson">johann johannsson</a><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aONdZzfLQkU"><br />riceboy sleeps: all the big trees</a><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuv0kiuDJM8&feature=related">blackbird</a><br /><a href="http://www.myspace.com/mward">m. ward: poison cup</a>angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-69229971837298565952009-03-21T11:07:00.007-06:002009-03-21T17:12:32.601-06:00lighten up.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3341/3333604389_2cee507d76.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 317px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3341/3333604389_2cee507d76.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> <br />new. <br />waking up, the world is waking up. <br />already, and not yet. <br />spring: break out of the darkness into the longer days; i think we are ready for your surprises. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.myspace.com/dayoflions">day of lions</a>. nice.<br />going to see <a href="http://www.myspace.com/thenorthwoodsmusic">these guys</a> tonight. thinking about riding my bike. thinking about how sometimes we lose our voices to our thoughts...clearing my throat and warming up to start to sing a new song with all of those birds out there. <br /><br />enjoying not wearing heavy. winter. coats. <br /><br />and swaying along to andrew bird...<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KolvTBQGVgc&feature=related">why?</a> <br /><br />and wanting to see this: <a href="http://www.mattbarber.com/weathered/">weathered.</a><br /><br /><br />bradford pear buds from flickr.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-81919263967447853182009-02-06T23:55:00.000-06:002009-02-06T23:55:00.739-06:00something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wingspoetry arrived. <br />pablo neruda<br /><br />And it was at that age...Poetry arrived<br />in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where<br />it came from, from winter or a river.<br />I don't know how or when,<br />no, they were not voices, they were not<br />words, nor silence,<br />but from a street I was summoned,<br />from the branches of night,<br />abruptly from the others,<br />among violent fires<br />or returning alone,<br />there I was without a face<br />and it touched me.<br /><br />I did not know what to say, my mouth<br />had no way<br />with names<br />my eyes were blind,<br />and something started in my soul,<br />fever or forgotten wings,<br />and I made my own way,<br />deciphering<br />that fire<br />and I wrote the first faint line,<br />faint, without substance, pure<br />nonsense,<br />pure wisdom<br />of someone who knows nothing,<br />and suddenly I saw<br />the heavens<br />unfastened<br />and open,<br />planets,<br />palpitating plantations,<br />shadow perforated,<br />riddled<br />with arrows, fire and flowers,<br />the winding night, the universe.<br /><br />And I, infinitesimal being,<br />drunk with the great starry<br />void,<br />likeness, image of<br />mystery,<br />I felt myself a pure part<br />of the abyss,<br />I wheeled with the stars,<br />my heart broke free on the open sky.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-83497093018160523052009-02-04T18:45:00.006-06:002009-02-04T19:36:14.838-06:00when words don't seem to do the trick.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SYo4F6qqTvI/AAAAAAAAAV8/vHKeF5Eeb2k/s1600-h/61lNK3R8M6L._SL500_AA280_.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 280px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SYo4F6qqTvI/AAAAAAAAAV8/vHKeF5Eeb2k/s400/61lNK3R8M6L._SL500_AA280_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299109585853501170" /></a> <br />it is a bright, cold, clear winter night, and i find myself nestled in bed amidst piles of reading-for-fun and reading-for-school books. the radiators are hissing occasionally but not warming up the rooms super well. there are creaks and thumps in this old building; it is only early evening, yet it is quite dark and still. <br /><br />2009 has already been...well...full. i can't seem to find the right things to say in the right ways. when this is the case, i usually resort to music. <br /><br />there are some albums that i rely on that generally just...work. whether it is a night like tonight or a warm, long-on-the-dusk summer evening out on the back steps, watching the sky turn from blue to black....i find that these three albums by good ol' linford all smushed together in a playlist of gentle awesomeness are just right: <a href="http://www.overtherhine.com/solo.php">unspoken requests, grey ghost stories, i don't think there's no need to bring nothin.</a><br /><br />lately i step back and look at my life and see that i am wrestling for a blessing and failing to believe and returning to the altar to kneel. i am surprised and blessed every day by the community i've been given. we're stumbling along together. <br /><br />and i don't think there's no need to bring nothin.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-9162097690036961522009-01-21T17:46:00.001-06:002009-01-21T17:50:30.658-06:00stolen again.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SXe0M2S4kcI/AAAAAAAAAVo/I1so3cP8KEQ/s1600-h/just+right.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SXe0M2S4kcI/AAAAAAAAAVo/I1so3cP8KEQ/s400/just+right.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293898019823456706" /></a><br />ed crim's "a year in forest park." <a href="http://web.me.com/edwardcrim/FP365/FP365/FP365.html">see the project here</a>.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-19839089228353177322009-01-12T23:17:00.008-06:002009-01-12T23:29:46.050-06:00stolenthese are just a few from <a href="http://thedasslereffect.wordpress.com/">a friend's</a> record of the l'abri retreat. he got some lovely shots. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SWwmPa91IZI/AAAAAAAAAVg/8tIt1lXhJiA/s1600-h/saute.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SWwmPa91IZI/AAAAAAAAAVg/8tIt1lXhJiA/s320/saute.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290645708632039826" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SWwmH3JlPII/AAAAAAAAAVY/JAe26LqMoRo/s1600-h/dead+of+winter.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SWwmH3JlPII/AAAAAAAAAVY/JAe26LqMoRo/s320/dead+of+winter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290645578758569090" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SWwmAV3taUI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/7vf_Wa4wymo/s1600-h/closest+to+the+earth.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SWwmAV3taUI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/7vf_Wa4wymo/s320/closest+to+the+earth.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290645449566153026" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SWwk-t-xCQI/AAAAAAAAAVI/_yHeA9yDjL4/s1600-h/a+thousand+tiny+bells.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SWwk-t-xCQI/AAAAAAAAAVI/_yHeA9yDjL4/s320/a+thousand+tiny+bells.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290644322166835458" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SWwkmxo4thI/AAAAAAAAAVA/SvQGJDiopMM/s1600-h/if+the+wind.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SWwkmxo4thI/AAAAAAAAAVA/SvQGJDiopMM/s320/if+the+wind.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290643910831945234" /></a>angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-21843785658560549882009-01-05T00:27:00.003-06:002009-01-05T00:39:22.548-06:00check out <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=98416117">number 6--toumani diabate "cantelowes"</a>. it's great.<br /><a href="http://www.myspace.com/toumanidiabate"><br />http://www.myspace.com/toumanidiabate</a><br /><br />he's going to be at the sheldon april 9...anybody in?angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-34173167928250772052009-01-01T09:59:00.001-06:002009-01-01T13:54:10.940-06:00happy new year.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SV0EYXzEB2I/AAAAAAAAAU0/NmEVEc8JfXc/s1600-h/mexicali-x.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 332px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fCXR0mjdvk4/SV0EYXzEB2I/AAAAAAAAAU0/NmEVEc8JfXc/s400/mexicali-x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286386354354390882" /></a><br />little red squares of <a href="http://asterweb.jpl.nasa.gov/">mexicali</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.miaandjonah.com/">mia & jonah</a> is quite nice.<br /><br />i think i found something great here...you can download <a href="http://www.joepugmusic.com/music.html">joe pug's lovely "hymn 101" free</a>. <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=95798312">here's an article</a> on "all songs considered." <br />the lyrics to the whole song are good. a taste:<br /><blockquote>and you've come<br />to know me stubborn as a butcher<br />and you've come<br />to know me thankless as a guest<br />will you recognize my face<br />when god's awful grace<br />strips me of my jacket and my vest<br />and reveals all the treasure in my chest<br />"Hymn 101" - Joe Pug</blockquote><br /><br />am i the last on this bandwagon? <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhLRxui7vXU"> "fools"</a> is a great song by<a href="http://dodosmusic.net/"> the dodos</a>. <br /><br />break has been so nice so far--time to read, reflect, have unhurried talks with friends, sit in the warm sunshine of <a href="http://thekitchengnomes.blogspot.com/">the gnomes'</a> kitchen, cook, write, watch movies and just <span style="font-style:italic;">be</span>. <br /><br />i picked up anne lamott's <span style="font-style:italic;">traveling mercies</span> the other day and was reading a few old favorites. i like her wry humor and her tell it like it is-ness...she doesn't really try to sugarcoat it...any of it--life, relationships, faith. sometimes it's so honest it's cutting. there's one essay in this collection called "sister" about the slow process of her decision to get her hair done in twisty dreadlocks by a beautiful african american woman at her church. she talks about a longstanding hatred and shame of her frizzy red hair, because even into adulthood people asked if she'd stuck her finger in a light socket. <br /><br />one of the things that made her decide to do it was a conversation with her friend pammy in a macy's dressing room. her friend was undergoing chemotherapy and wearing a wig to cover her baldness. anne describes trying on a dress that she thought her boyfriend would like, but she asked her friend if it made her look big in the hips. pammy answers, "annie, you just don't have that kind of time." she talks about this defining moment in relation to worries about the stupid things that don't matter--like what other people think of your crazy ass hair. i love it. fear, looking stupid, being out of our element, avoiding risk. can't that one line sort of sum up pivotal moments where you finally realize you have to stop being dumb and just live? "annie, you just don't have that kind of time." <br /><br />i also started reading dan allendar's <span style="font-style:italic;">to be told</span>, which is really, really...really good. it is hitting on some of the things i've been thinking about lately along the lines of story...what makes a good story, a good life. its about how we find the names God has given us. i'm still chewing on it a bit...<br /><br />happy new year, friends. time to get out and enjoy the day.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-59773700139922825312008-12-29T19:57:00.002-06:002008-12-29T20:01:55.787-06:00<a href="http://www.laurengray.blogspot.com/">A friend</a> <a href="http://www.condition-critical.org/feature/">shared this about what's going on in Congo now. </a><br /><br />O come, o come.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17519281.post-26145930713127189802008-12-28T00:02:00.006-06:002008-12-28T23:37:32.365-06:00signsSometimes the days seem dark. I can’t catch my breath, feel like I'm walking into a fierce wind, feel like my heart is constricting with cold and lack of a vision; heavy with an ache that is more desperate than pesky. <br /><br />I like to think about how stories work. We usually don’t want to watch a movie about a beautiful girl who does everything perfectly and wins the pageant with no struggle or effort. A good story starts when things don't go the way they are expected to go. If the hero of the story is buff and amazingly strong, suffers no injuries while not saving the world (cause it doesn't need to be saved); if he does everything easily with his superpowers, has no flaws, there are no glitches, and everyone is spared total annihilation with plenty of time to spare...that would be a terrible story. No conflict, no character development, no resolution. <br /><br />I spent a lot of time recently watching the whole Lord of the Rings trilogy from start to finish. I was completely taken in by the story. All odds are against the hobbits. They are the unlikely heroes. They have to be exhausted and terrified and in places where they see no hope of ever completing the journey. They have to be in danger to find out that they are brave. <br /><br />This is kind of an obvious point, I know, but sometimes we want our lives to be the most perfect, most boring script ever written. We want to avoid the things that end up being some of the best parts of the story—the fear, the suspense, ache, drama, yearning, beauty, mourning, disappointment, waiting. Stories are not really complete if they are too perfect. Things come together too neatly and there is not much to hold our attention. <br /><br />*********<br /><br />Recently I went for a hike in my favorite near-woods. I think the hobbit journey made me crave it, subconsciously. These woods are close to a highway, they are mapped out with trails and fences. There are train tracks running right through the park, and the trains came through three times on my hike. Long trains, car after car, piled high with heaps of coal. They lumbered through my favorite hiking spot in half hour intervals during the coldest day of the year so far. <br /><br />This being the case, these woods are only near-woods, not the the true wilderness you really crave when you hear the metro announcement from your dining room table every 15 minutes. But being a city girl, I must settle for this two hour trip rather than wait in vain to hike in the mountains of New Zealand.<br /><br />********* <br /><br />Sometimes I ask God for signs. I know it’s kind of dumb (rationally--but what about faith is rational, anyway?); I know it’s an unfair demand--not that God can’t do any sign he wanted to, but that my belief in his goodness could or would be founded in his meeting my expectations? This habit of mine is pretty ridiculous--knowing all of the things he does to prove his faithfulness and care. But sometimes I lose sight of that, and the darkness makes things feel more hopeless than....like...sad, nihilistic French movie hopeless. I mean things feel really hopeless. This is the part of the story I want to avoid—the part where you get so low and desperate that you have to ask for help, have to ask for a sign. I really would rather avoid it all together. <br /><br />So I was driving way out to the woods on this really cold day last week thinking: man, I just need to see a deer or something. The first part of the trail I was hiking is one long gravely hill up to a mile or so of path that winds along the top of the bluffs, overlooking the river. Below the bluffs are bare branched trees and the wide brown river that was icy along its banks but was still flowing swiftly. <br /><br />Starting up the trail, everything was brown and frozen and wet piles of leaves. No real indication that two months ago the path was blazing with green, orange, yellow, and red and humming with bugs and critters and birds. That day it was desolate, one of the coldest days we’ve had in years. <br /><br />I was trudging, and I was tired, and I knew I was looking for something by driving all the way out to these woods to walk up this long hill. It was just one of those weeks where you are uncomfortable in your own skin, where you feel terrified and dark and anxious and angry. I was walking with my head down and when I looked up on the hill above the trail, there were three deer nosing around the leaves on the forest floor about twenty feet from me. I stopped, somewhat perplexed, and met eyes with them. They took turns looking at me with their big brown eyes but didn’t run away. They stood eating and meandering. They ever so slowly wandered away up over a hill and I stayed there still on the trail, realizing when they were finally out of sight that I had been holding by breath. <br /><br />After that as I kept walking it seemed like there were signs all around. There were finches and robins tussling about in the leaves, there was a cardinal swooping down across the path. There was a flock of geese camped out in the open field, stopping to rest like they were posed for a painting. The clouds cleared away and there was blue sky and winter sun coming down in streaks. There were blackbirds sitting high in the tops of the trees and taking flight over us all, swooping in the midst of the trees and singing with each other. <br /><br />Somehow this happens a lot. I think it is meant to be part of the story...that things get desperate, and we ask for a sign and feel stupid asking for a sign. The reality is we need to see beyond ourselves and our limited perspectives and small lives and remember that the Creator of the universe calls us each by name. Too many times now the sign has been what I was sort of hoping for...something just out of the ordinary enough that it isn't coincidental, and it manages to take my breath away. <br /><br />I am reminded that there are surprises left in my story, even when I don't have the faith to hope for them.angelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237995066686521431noreply@blogger.com1