This has been two days of heights and depths. It is the old cliche' of "Good News Bad News" living out its blessings and wretchedness in a measly two days. Bruderhof Communities had a timely Tolstoy short story highlighted this morning. Tolstoy got it right again but the reality of the meaning of life eludes me when I am living the Bad News part.
Monday I had someone help me in the house; that was good, but becoming acquainted with WS was warm and enriching both spiritually and personally. Surely God sends people into one's life the same way as people entered the King's life in the Tolstoy tale.
WS is from South Korea, one of two Christians in her large family, and will get her Masters Degree in Counseling in May. I see her skilled work as a blessing and when she told me that I am a good housekeeper, I owned the statement and took it as a great compliment. We will become great friends, I am sure, and my house sparkles. That is my good news.
Ah, but the bad news. Why is it that some bad news is as bad as it can get? He Who Must Be Obeyed warned me not to pick up the phone when R. calls. The rings were persistantly long throughout the day. By six or seven last night, this mother, couldn't let it go unheeded any longer. I persuaded HWMBO to speak to her; I stayed on the line. He is always right. We both got cursed horribly and hatefully. Then when it was over, I became the scapegoat again. I know it is the Bi-Polar illness speaking and I realize I enabled the escalation by allowing it to happen. None-the-less, that rationalization does not lessen the damage.
To quote Tolstoy, "Remember then: there is only one time that is important - Now! It is the most important time because it is the only time when we have any power. I cannot think past the last night's sting to see how that can help me "now."
Tolstoy, in his last paragraph, gives us the meaning of life. All of it makes perfect sense. It is scraping up the bloody mess after it has been botched that is the problem.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Unguents and Potions
Saturday the Black Hills Wopila and Defenders are getting together for a picnic and to pray for the Black Hills. I doubt that we mainliners would even think to do such a thing. I honor the endeavor. I discovered a new, to me, web site called "Defenders of the Black Hills." In it was some information on the abandoned Cave Hills uranium mines. The photo is a new sight to me; they say the photo was taken of the sacred circle at Cave Hills on April 2, 2005.
Now we all know why I don't, as our educators might say, "stay on task." It is amazing how many curious and interesting little things save me from the tedium of cleaning closets or editing publications. I heard a word the other day that is appropriate to my life, it was 'closet chaos.' I suspect there is a little of that going on in my right brain most days and it always spills over into the closet. To tell the truth, I am learning to enjoy a little chaos, it keeps one a bit edgy, and on your toes, never knowing just what is coming at you next.
Nice thing yesterday: He Who Must Be Obeyed bought me a wonderful gift of Obsession unguents, potions, and perfumes. All I did was show him how nearly out of the one time Christmas gift I am. Well he fixed that immediately. It is hard to even picture him at a perfume counter. No birthday, no anniversary, no Christmas...Just because!
Now we all know why I don't, as our educators might say, "stay on task." It is amazing how many curious and interesting little things save me from the tedium of cleaning closets or editing publications. I heard a word the other day that is appropriate to my life, it was 'closet chaos.' I suspect there is a little of that going on in my right brain most days and it always spills over into the closet. To tell the truth, I am learning to enjoy a little chaos, it keeps one a bit edgy, and on your toes, never knowing just what is coming at you next.
Nice thing yesterday: He Who Must Be Obeyed bought me a wonderful gift of Obsession unguents, potions, and perfumes. All I did was show him how nearly out of the one time Christmas gift I am. Well he fixed that immediately. It is hard to even picture him at a perfume counter. No birthday, no anniversary, no Christmas...Just because!
Friday, October 14, 2005
Happy Birthday E.E. Cummings
Today is the birthday of E.E. Cummings, a rowdy poet older than my dad, younger than my grandmother. With a name like Edward Estlin I would have signed my work e.e. cummings too, but I would never have had the courage to write like he did.
My favorite of all of his poems is "the balloon man." I can't find it at the moment.There are a number of his poems on line, and one that would go well with the four pictures of the Cave Hills church I have on here, somewhat by accident. The last two stanzas of his "i am a little church (no great cathedral)follow:
i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
--i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing
winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)
My favorite of all of his poems is "the balloon man." I can't find it at the moment.There are a number of his poems on line, and one that would go well with the four pictures of the Cave Hills church I have on here, somewhat by accident. The last two stanzas of his "i am a little church (no great cathedral)follow:
i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
--i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing
winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
"The Heart is a Lonely Hunter"
This fact is one that I regret and have agonized over more than once: not only do I have huge gaps in my literary background, but I will never live long enough to read the great books that have been written ages ago; so how then, will I ever keep up with what is being published today, and yesterday, and will be tomorrow?
Today I am amazed and intrigued by Carson McCullers' "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter."
Reading it takes me to my own bookshelf and into a little gem that a former pastor introduced a group of us to a few years ago. Any book that has people shouting at one another across the table is notable. This one was almost a heart stopper for me. Marcus Borg's "Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time" stirred my gray matter to read what I could about 'the Sioux spirit person, Black Elk' and Niehart's daughter's retelling of the climb to Harney Peak to relive the vision. But today that is not the point, and it is not the point of Borg's book either.
It is Borg's hypothesis on separation and lonliness that resonate within me. "As a life of being separated from that to which one belongs, exile is often marked by grief, as in one of the psalms of exile: "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion." He goes on to say "The same sadness is experessed in one of the church's gread Advent hymns: "O Come O Come Immanuel, and ransome captive Isreal, that :mourns in lonelly exile here."...exile is marked by deep sadness and an aching loneliness."
If the problem is exile, what is the solution? as Borg states, the solution is, of course, a journey of return. I can understand that, having returned to my childhood homeland recently and the power that has always had on me. Alas it is always so fleeting. But that is only scratching the surface of exile. True exile is not of place, but of heart.
Carson McCullers had nailed it at 23 in 1940. I am only on page 70 and with every encounter one finds lonely exiles. She had the key to a good novel so young. My regret is that it wasn't one of the books chosen for my college American Lit class in 1972. It would have been an excellent book to discuss with a group.
Today I am amazed and intrigued by Carson McCullers' "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter."
Reading it takes me to my own bookshelf and into a little gem that a former pastor introduced a group of us to a few years ago. Any book that has people shouting at one another across the table is notable. This one was almost a heart stopper for me. Marcus Borg's "Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time" stirred my gray matter to read what I could about 'the Sioux spirit person, Black Elk' and Niehart's daughter's retelling of the climb to Harney Peak to relive the vision. But today that is not the point, and it is not the point of Borg's book either.
It is Borg's hypothesis on separation and lonliness that resonate within me. "As a life of being separated from that to which one belongs, exile is often marked by grief, as in one of the psalms of exile: "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion." He goes on to say "The same sadness is experessed in one of the church's gread Advent hymns: "O Come O Come Immanuel, and ransome captive Isreal, that :mourns in lonelly exile here."...exile is marked by deep sadness and an aching loneliness."
If the problem is exile, what is the solution? as Borg states, the solution is, of course, a journey of return. I can understand that, having returned to my childhood homeland recently and the power that has always had on me. Alas it is always so fleeting. But that is only scratching the surface of exile. True exile is not of place, but of heart.
Carson McCullers had nailed it at 23 in 1940. I am only on page 70 and with every encounter one finds lonely exiles. She had the key to a good novel so young. My regret is that it wasn't one of the books chosen for my college American Lit class in 1972. It would have been an excellent book to discuss with a group.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
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