Time Travel

The pianist strikes the opening chord and words appear on the overhead screen. My breath catches; my heart swells; tears of recognition sting my eyes. 

This song is a portal to a place in time past—a place cemented in my mind. The place is unchanging as time pulls me farther and farther away. This is a place where my grandpa plays the piano in a little chapel amidst the pine trees. He plays for the sheer joy of it—all alone except for the audience of his God. Except I’m there too, drawn by the notes rising through the mountain morning air, but he doesn’t see me. Grandpa’s presence, especially Grandpa’s presence at the piano, seems as constant as the stars. It is no trouble at all for me to recall the words to the melodies he plays in his boisterous way. They come as naturally as the names of any of my boisterous family members. Those same family members sing every time we gather no matter the occasion. My past self sneaks in to listen. I am in college and possess all the vitality and curiosity of a young adult unsure of her future and simultaneously excited for it to arrive.

And now it has arrived. I stand among hundreds of women on a Monday night, in this future. We sing the familiar words and that is all it takes for me to be transported back in time through the portal of an unassuming hymn. Ambushed by the music, I’m powerless to stop the tears as they well up and roll down my face. Here I am, standing next to my daughter in this good future, marveling at the path I took to get here and grateful for the blessings generously strewn along the way. I look back on my past self with wistful tenderness. I ask her to hug Grandpa, to sit a minute longer in the back of that little chapel, receiving that timeless truth sent ahead to me by the song’s author and strengthened by those who entrusted it to me by repeating it often enough that I can sing it entirely from memory.

I carry the song forward into the future again. I look down at the blonde head of my daughter as she sings. I wonder, will it one day transport her as it did me?

I can’t read the future but I can sing the song and hope. 

I know not why God’s wondrous grace to me he hath made known, nor why, unworthy, Christ in love, redeemed me for His own. But I know Whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I’ve committed unto Him against that day.

Journals are for babies

It was dollar day (and by "day" they mean "any non R-rated movie showing at 10 am) at the movie theater today. The girls watched The Lorax while I (rather smugly) read a book on my precious Kindle Paperwhite.

Mark Twain happened to comment on the topic of keeping a journal in The Innocents Abroad.

"At certain periods it becomes the dearest ambition of a man to keep a faithful record of his performances in a book; and he dashes at this work with an enthusiasm that imposes on him the notion that keeping a journal is the veriest pastime in the world, and the pleasantest. But if he only lives twenty-one days, he will find out that only those rare natures that are made up of pluck, endurance, devotion to duty for duty's sake, and invincible determination may hope to venture upon so tremendous an enterprise as the keeping of a journal and not sustain a shameful defeat."

 I brightened considerably. I have been writing many things in many journals for many more days than twenty-one. I have pluck and endurance! Devotion to duty and invincible determination! Mark Twain said so!

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On our way down to the apartment park my girls passed a man going up the stairs. I heard him and the girls exchange hellos and then he continued up and saw me. He's a downstairs neighbor of ours and has Down's Syndrome. He asked me a question and I had difficulty understanding so he repeated it. His tone was concerned and worried. He wanted to know if the girls, "were my babies?" He was relieved to hear they were. I was so touched that he's looking out for kids who didn't seem to be with an adult.

Yes, they're my babies.

"Why did he call us babies, Mom?" Katherine wanted to know. She was prepared to take offense. She is NOT a baby and was lately quite pleased NOT to be required to wear a life jacket at the water park. Heaven forbid people see a life jacket on her and erroneously conclude she can't swim. She was one inch over the 4-ft-tall requirement and thrilled. (I have a 4-ft. six-year-old. Is that normal? Ah ha! No!)

"Some people say 'babies' when they mean 'children.'" I explain. We were at the park and they began climbing things. I sat down to knit. Maybe one day she'll experience what mothers do, sometimes, when they see their NOT-a-baby child asleep, or laughing, or standing a certain way, with a certain expression on her face - one that's been hers since birth. Sometimes I look at her and can't NOT see the little baby she was.

Scenarios

Last night I saw the moon rise and it was stunning. Giant, golden, gorgeous and low on the horizon against a dark blue sky. In that first moment I want to call up everyone I know who might care, "You guys! The MOON! Go look RIGHT NOW!" But I don't because who does that (well, me, but only if it's really REALLY picturesque.) After I mentally run through the list of anyone who may be in a position to stop what they're doing and gaze at the moon, I wish for a camera and a hill and no city lights and while I'm at it some really great trees to silhouette¹ against it, etc., etc.. Instead, I kept driving, craning my neck for another glance whenever I could.

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This morning I saw the moon set. It startled me even more awake than I already wasn't - giant, pearly and glowing against a soft blue sky. I took a horrible picture with my horrible phone² from my horrible kitchen window. Then I called for everyone in the house to come see. (The moon, not my picture.) But here, you can see the picture, since you probably missed it this morning. It's three trillion times better in person, I assure you.

My bad, this is not from the kitchen window. This is taken from the window above the piano keyboard.

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I'm reading Bryson's Dictionary of Troublesome Words and as a result am becoming even more acutely aware that I majored in biology and not journalism. Boy do editors have a lot to remember. I enjoy writing and words as a means to an end, which is the expression of ideas. I'm not so terribly concerned about grammar and spelling as long as the person I'm communicating with (a lot of the time the person is only me) can readily understand the idea/meaning/concept. I've gotten much sloppier in my old age and as the amount of reading I'm doing has decreased. Also, my ideas are less clear and more muddy in my brain. This may be due to children stealing my brain cells or lack of practice or both.

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Sometimes I feel like the avocado seeds I'm trying to grow. For almost four weeks they've sat in cups of water on my window sill, each one suspended by three toothpicks. I top off the water and wait expectantly. "Any day now!" I think optimistically as I inspect the almost-completely-unchanged seed. It looks a little grungier - sort of bruised and cracked in spots. Certainly not capable of pushing life out of it.

But I have hope because I have seen it happen before.

Sometimes I feel like I go through periods of enormous internal growth but nothing becomes visible externally for quite a while. I know I've changed. I FEEL changed. But I don't LOOK changed to other people. I wish I could force it. I wish I could burst forth into a glorious fruit-producing tree overnight and people would oooh and aaah and come sit in my shade and want to know my secret³. I wish that just seeing where I want to be was enough to get me there. I wish that the process wouldn't take so long or require so much, sometimes. I wish to jump ahead and enjoy the fruits without very much labor.

I wish I had a more mature perspective.

Proverbs has a verse about this: "There is profit in all hard work, but endless talk leads only to poverty."

Right. Thanks, Proverbs. I think I'd rather listen to Leviticus on this one: "You must not do any work at all! This is a permanent law for you, and it must be observed from generation to generation wherever you live." (Isn't that the most lovely Bible verse you've ever seen? [Talk about picking and choosing parts of the Bible to fit personal tastes!])

Then there's the verse I love to hate in Galatians: "So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up."

I have actually quoted this verse to a Christian counselor along with the somewhat martyr-like, self-centered exclamation, "I am SO tired of doing good. I'm just DONE! How much longer do I have to do good? Can I stop yet? I mean seriously. Where's my harvest of blessing?!" I can't remember the reply I got that day but today I remind myself that inner change is change and it is a blessing. Harvests don't have to be external to count. I have a MUCH better relationship with myself today than I did five months ago. Eventually, at just the right time, others will experience a much better relationship with me, too. I really hope it's sooner than later but for now I'm content to work on what I know I need to do and trust that the process will lead to healing and whole relationships outside of me as well. 

I have hope because I have seen it happen before. 

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¹I just spelled that correctly the first time for what I believe may be the first time in my entire life.
²But don't you fear! I'll be getting an iPhone 5 tomorrow!
³The secret is... there isn't one!

Na(Jo)WriMo

It's NaNoWriMo time!

I do not have any desire to write fiction. I can think of two fiction stories... heh. As I sit and think, I keep remembering more. Okay. I have definitely written at least three fiction stories and all of them were written before I was 13 or 14.

I do have a very strong desire to write non-fiction and so that's what I'm doing this month. The "Jo" in this title stands for "journal" which is what I'm doing to achieve the goal of 50,000 words. So far I've reached the daily word count effortlessly.

I don't have very many other goals for the writing I'm doing. I've written about events in my day and the thoughts and feelings that came up as a result. I've written about relationships and parenting and random snippets of true-story material gleaned from observations and interactions with people.

It's all completely uncensored and with no over-arching goal or message that I'm driving at. I'm just writing. I show up for my life each day and write what I notice. I think it'll be interesting to look back at the end of the month and see what the themes and/or plot emerges. Assuming I make it to the end of the month.

Words

The other day I complimented someone on his story-telling ability.

Whenever he talks I shut up and listen; he has my full and complete attention. He opens his mouth and the words pour out, weighted and measured and perfectly aligned into achingly beautiful and sometimes gut-wrenchingly raw stories. I may be exaggerating a little, but still... and they're true stories, which happen to be my absolute favorite. The words crack through all the pretending and all the organized outer layers so many of us have. He portrays life as he experiences it which is often far more lovely and beautiful even in it's inevitable suffering than I am brave enough to experience, most of the time. I'm usually far too busy compulsively protecting myself from pain and failing miserably. Emphasis on miserable. (Actually, no! I'm getting better!)

Anyhow. I told him he was a master wordsmith. Well, I might have phrased it more like, "hey, um, you're, like, really good at... words... and stuff."

He grinned humbly and replied, eyes-twinkling, "well I was a lawyer."

I laugh. Of COURSE he was a lawyer.

I ask if he writes. I hope he has books. Or a blog.

He says no. He says he's too afraid to write.

I am stunned.

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So I resolve to write poorly and despite my own fear and lack of skill and time and patience and knowledge. I do like my own true stories and who else can tell them? Maybe if I tell mine others will feel more comfortable telling theirs.

As it turns out...

...I enjoy writing too much to just abandon blogging. What I will need to abandon, maybe temporarily, is the sorts of things I'd want to write here. I can still write. I can still make time to write about other things.

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I just spoke with a Brandon from GoDaddy and I trust that in a few hours, you'll be able to read this on my domain. At long last. It's been a while. Finally made time to call.

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Earlier today a writing prompt website came to mind and after a Google search or two, I found it! I had fun on this site when I was in college - oneword.com. They give a one word prompt and you write about it for a timed sixty seconds. There's no time to think or plan; you just see the word, and start typing whatever is in your head. And that's it. Easy and fun.

Here's what I came up with, today. The prompt was 'oil.'

"Oil was slick in the rain. Before he knew it, he was down, the bike half-crushing his left leg and knee. Helmet slammed, saw stars, prayed for safety, still trying to wrestle the machine out of the way of fellow travelers. Rain fell harder, now."

It makes me want to keep writing the scene and find out more.

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I like efficiency. Maybe it's partly for that reason that I'm really not a fan of preparing food. Over and over. Day in and day out. People always are needing to eat. Messing up the kitchen. Cleaning up the kitchen. Such a bother. Harrumph. I wish we could just eat once per day and be done with it. Or have the appropriate amount of calories deposited directly into our stomachs. I plain just don't get much joy out of making food and doing dishes. (I should also note that despite this, I still make just about everything from scratch because... I guess because that's what my mom did. Plus, fresher ingredients, less processed food, etc..)

I tried to think of ways I can still carry out this necessary part of life (dishes and food and food and dishes! never ending!) in a way that would appeal more to me, specifically. Then I hit upon a very unoriginal idea - food preparation en masse! PERFECT! And now that I a) do not have a newborn and am not pregnant, and b) am less exhausted because I'm actually treating my anemia, I just might be able to pull it off!

Pinterest has been a great inspiration. Look.

I'm going to make these breakfast burritos next. These smoothie packets were super successful.

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GTOTD: Library visit! Am hungry for new words.