When I came in late from eating pie (Happy Pi Day!) with some good women tonight, I ran upstairs to say goodnight to the restless girls and noticed Beatrix's neck was sunburned. I hate to celebrate a sunburn, but it is a the mark of one unbelievably gorgeous, summery day, with the daffodils waving like gospel singers and the grass busting out so green it's almost bad taste and the robins taking back the neighborhood. It was THAT sort of March day, the kind of day that makes you want to forget all your troubles and fly off into the lonely white cloud in the azure sky.
Though I did not fly, I did walk quite a bit and sat in the sun and continued with the forever job of tidying the winter-weary yard. I pulled on Martin's thick hide gloves and went at the piles of nasty thorns, trying to wrestle them into big garbage bags (a tricky task). Soon after the buses pulled through the the streets, Roberto, Nancy's middle son, arrived in our driveway on his bike. Roberto, middle-school, big-talker, sweetly handsome young man (originally from Guatemala, with a sweep of dark hair, big, brown eyes, a bit shorter than many of his peers), is a good story-teller and is extraordinarily skilled with wee kids. And my two little girls love him. They've both grown up with him, calling him either "Berto" or "Bobo." One night two-year old Bea prayed for "Uncle Berto," which Merry and Catherine thought was hilarious. Elspeth and Bea love to torture him in a good-natured way, pulling on his legs and slugging him once and a while (this is not encouraged by their mother, by the way.)
This afternoon he somewhat awkwardly hung out with me for a few minutes while I shoved rose branches into a trashcan. He responded politely to my stock questions--How was school today? Do you have testing this week? That means no homework, right? Etc. (How boring I must be, just like the grown-ups I remember from my childhood; I'd answer with a smile, wishing they would ask about something other than school. . .and mostly they never did). After a genial interlude, Roberto disappeared down the hill and the next thing I knew, he was hitting around a plastic baseball with Elspeth. I looked up again and he was pitching to her, slowly and patiently. And then Elspeth gathered some black walnuts from our big tree and began throwing them to Roberto, who knocked them to kingdom come, down our chimney and off our roof.
"Home run!" I heard Elspeth yell, and then to me up the hill, "Mommy! Roberto's GOOD!"
I gazed down at them in the sea of emerald grass, six-year old Elspeth (often a handful) and Roberto (often discouraged by his lack of ease with sports), both middle children, and they seemed to be glowing like suns. I could feel the warmth.
John, Roberto's father, had told me a few days ago that Roberto had come home from playing baseball at a friend's house discouraged and in a bad mood. Today Roberto admitted to me he can't hit a baseball. But he could sure hit those walnuts Elspeth was pitching to him--boy, was he slugging them. And to Elspeth down in the field by our creek, Roberto was Babe Ruth.
It struck me: we all should be so adored. Adoration is wonderful. When we know it from another person we love, adoration transforms us, helps us come closer to understanding who we really are--worthy of celebration. And when we see it in the pure, loving adoration of another, and it moves us to strive to be more generous givers.
"Well, I think I'll just come back tomorrow," Roberto told me a few hours later, after he had hung out in the garden, eating graham crackers distributed by Beatrix, who warned him "not to get a tummyache" and then on the porch with Elspeth as she cut out a paper crown.
"That would be wonderful," I smiled. "You're really good with the kids, Roberto."
He shrugged a little. "It seems like you could use someone to play with them," he said. And as he inched toward the door, he added, "I'll just come over after school."
"You can come over any time," I said.
"I told Elspeth I'd bring my aluminum bat."
I remember what my dear childhood friend told me when she fell in love with the man she will marry this summer. Her eyes were full of a new place, as if she'd just travelled to the most beautiful country she had never known existed. "It feels so good to be loved like that," she said. "I didn't know how good it would be."
We all deserve to be adored, not in a sentimental silly way that clouds our faults and coats us with sugar, but in a real way, a way that strips off our veils and shows us who we really are, and we realize that we are, after all, worthy of being loved sacrificially. Perhaps the adoration that I silently celebrated this afternoon is a glimpse of the eternal, where we will be at last truly joyful without reservation, where we will love without having to draw back, where we will accept the love that has always been waiting for us, that has surrounded us from our birth.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
This is a reflection I wrote for our Mennonite church about giving, and, by jove, it seemed so appropriate I thought I'd paste it here.
Right away I think of this story: my first truly sacrificial gift, and how it was given in ignorance that ripened into bitter regret.
I was about six, old enough to know how rare and wonderful a silver dollar was. My granddad gave these gleaming discs to us on our birthdays, and they were precious things. My sister never spent hers’, and I once bribed her out of one, but that’s a different story.
We were at our grandparent’s church—a place of plush carpet and gleaming wooden pews softened by long red cushions. When the offering was taken, I fumbled in my pockets for a quarter—then, as now, I felt a compunction to place something in the offering, even if it was from a panicky impulse not to be embarrassed in front of the solemn offering men in their suits, looking like Mafia envoys. As the velvet plum-colored pouch, split in half by slick walnut handles, passed me, I slipped in a quarter—a small offering, perhaps, even for a child like me who received allowances, but enough to get by, I thought, much better than a dime, say, or a handful of pennies, pathetic as they slide from the palm. In any case, I’d be guilt-free at least until communion, when my mother would cry and I’d struggle to come up with a list of sins to confess silently to God so I’d not drink unbearable punishment on myself. At least offering was over with.
But my sister passed the pouch to my father, as it disappeared out of reach down the aisle, I realized what I had done. Oh, no! My silver dollar. Given to me by the warm, old hands of my grey-haired grandfather. Given to me in love and in trust. I’d put it in a pouch with other meaningless coins, and it would be counted and dropped into the church coffers by more men in suits. Nobody would know how precious it was to me—nobody.
I pulled my mother’s ear down to my mouth and whispered, “I gave away my silver dollar. Into the offering!”
She sensed the desperation in my voice, I knew it. Would she help me retrieve it? God didn’t care what denominations the money came in, after all! Couldn’t I just give four quarters, the same amount of money but not the monumental treasure that my Granddad’s silver dollar was? I only got one once a year, and not even that often, since we lived overseas. Granddaddy had to go to the bank especially and exchange regular paper money for the silver dollars he’d place in his grandkid’s palm. Surely God would understand that this gift was too precious?
My mother leaned over in the church-way she had, where she could whisper in our ear without moving her eyes from the front of the church. “Never regret giving anything to God,” my mother whispered back.
What? Why did parents never understand?
I spent the rest of church—the scripture readings, the long sermon, right through the last hymn—in agony over my loss. I pictured how it had happened over and over again. I’d felt in my pockets, yanked out a silver coin, and tossed it in the offering pouch. I saw it disappear down the aisle again and again, and I thought about what my mother had said—never regret, never regret, never regret.
I still think about this moment. I don’t know if the loss of my silver dollar, which was of utmost significance to me at six, was a defining moment in my life, but the memory still defines me today, when I struggle to give away what’s precious. The giving, done in a moment of spirited generosity, perhaps, is not as hard as the trusting—the trusting that the one to whom I give can appreciate the gift enough, will be careful with what I have given—my money, my time, my children, my love.
God will take it all—and in my clearer moments, I realize it was never mine in the first place. I realize that there is no such thing as possession in the Great Story—that all things are entrusted, but not given away for keeps. God is not trustworthy in the way I want God to be. I want to receive a gift and hunker down in my favorite chair, savoring it without fear that a thing I love so much will be taken from me. But there are no such promises, and love rarely makes such promise. I can’t tell my children that their lives will be easy. I wish I could, and believe it, but I can’t.
One thing—no, two at least--that have not been given to me with any conditions. Love and grace. Love and grace—they are the sky, the stars, the ground, the ocean, the very air I breathe. No one can take these from me, and these I can give freely, freely, forever.
It’s the silver dollars I’m still struggling to find in my pockets, and knowing what I give, slip them into the offering basket. Today my silver dollar is my sense of security, control, and my knowledge of the future. Surely something else would do just as well. Surely it can’t be expected of me. Perhaps it’s not quite clear how much it means to me. And yet, I fumble about in the darkness of my pockets, untangle it from my grasping fingers, and let it go.
And as I watch it disappear down the aisle, as I watch other hands dropping coins—gifts that I cannot begin to understand or know—I feel panic, fear, grief—and then a growing sense that all is okay, not perhaps in the particulars, the lists of worries I love to obsess about—but in the large sense. I ask regret to leave me. All will be well. And all will be well. All manner of things will be well.
Right away I think of this story: my first truly sacrificial gift, and how it was given in ignorance that ripened into bitter regret.
I was about six, old enough to know how rare and wonderful a silver dollar was. My granddad gave these gleaming discs to us on our birthdays, and they were precious things. My sister never spent hers’, and I once bribed her out of one, but that’s a different story.
We were at our grandparent’s church—a place of plush carpet and gleaming wooden pews softened by long red cushions. When the offering was taken, I fumbled in my pockets for a quarter—then, as now, I felt a compunction to place something in the offering, even if it was from a panicky impulse not to be embarrassed in front of the solemn offering men in their suits, looking like Mafia envoys. As the velvet plum-colored pouch, split in half by slick walnut handles, passed me, I slipped in a quarter—a small offering, perhaps, even for a child like me who received allowances, but enough to get by, I thought, much better than a dime, say, or a handful of pennies, pathetic as they slide from the palm. In any case, I’d be guilt-free at least until communion, when my mother would cry and I’d struggle to come up with a list of sins to confess silently to God so I’d not drink unbearable punishment on myself. At least offering was over with.
But my sister passed the pouch to my father, as it disappeared out of reach down the aisle, I realized what I had done. Oh, no! My silver dollar. Given to me by the warm, old hands of my grey-haired grandfather. Given to me in love and in trust. I’d put it in a pouch with other meaningless coins, and it would be counted and dropped into the church coffers by more men in suits. Nobody would know how precious it was to me—nobody.
I pulled my mother’s ear down to my mouth and whispered, “I gave away my silver dollar. Into the offering!”
She sensed the desperation in my voice, I knew it. Would she help me retrieve it? God didn’t care what denominations the money came in, after all! Couldn’t I just give four quarters, the same amount of money but not the monumental treasure that my Granddad’s silver dollar was? I only got one once a year, and not even that often, since we lived overseas. Granddaddy had to go to the bank especially and exchange regular paper money for the silver dollars he’d place in his grandkid’s palm. Surely God would understand that this gift was too precious?
My mother leaned over in the church-way she had, where she could whisper in our ear without moving her eyes from the front of the church. “Never regret giving anything to God,” my mother whispered back.
What? Why did parents never understand?
I spent the rest of church—the scripture readings, the long sermon, right through the last hymn—in agony over my loss. I pictured how it had happened over and over again. I’d felt in my pockets, yanked out a silver coin, and tossed it in the offering pouch. I saw it disappear down the aisle again and again, and I thought about what my mother had said—never regret, never regret, never regret.
I still think about this moment. I don’t know if the loss of my silver dollar, which was of utmost significance to me at six, was a defining moment in my life, but the memory still defines me today, when I struggle to give away what’s precious. The giving, done in a moment of spirited generosity, perhaps, is not as hard as the trusting—the trusting that the one to whom I give can appreciate the gift enough, will be careful with what I have given—my money, my time, my children, my love.
God will take it all—and in my clearer moments, I realize it was never mine in the first place. I realize that there is no such thing as possession in the Great Story—that all things are entrusted, but not given away for keeps. God is not trustworthy in the way I want God to be. I want to receive a gift and hunker down in my favorite chair, savoring it without fear that a thing I love so much will be taken from me. But there are no such promises, and love rarely makes such promise. I can’t tell my children that their lives will be easy. I wish I could, and believe it, but I can’t.
One thing—no, two at least--that have not been given to me with any conditions. Love and grace. Love and grace—they are the sky, the stars, the ground, the ocean, the very air I breathe. No one can take these from me, and these I can give freely, freely, forever.
It’s the silver dollars I’m still struggling to find in my pockets, and knowing what I give, slip them into the offering basket. Today my silver dollar is my sense of security, control, and my knowledge of the future. Surely something else would do just as well. Surely it can’t be expected of me. Perhaps it’s not quite clear how much it means to me. And yet, I fumble about in the darkness of my pockets, untangle it from my grasping fingers, and let it go.
And as I watch it disappear down the aisle, as I watch other hands dropping coins—gifts that I cannot begin to understand or know—I feel panic, fear, grief—and then a growing sense that all is okay, not perhaps in the particulars, the lists of worries I love to obsess about—but in the large sense. I ask regret to leave me. All will be well. And all will be well. All manner of things will be well.
Friday, March 9, 2012
I found myself heartily upset that Martin has had to spend his spring break in front of a computer screen, looking for jobs. Mostly I've felt this positive energy, even if it's only simmering, through all of it, but the beginning feeling of crisis has waned into a daily reality--one where my dear friend and companion is often glued to a screen, trying to make sense out of the future. I guess since Mom left a couple days ago, this afternoon was waiting for me--an afternoon of sadness, punctuated by a few hot pops of anger. Sometimes it feels rather like a dream I'm waiting to shake myself from.
But now I feel better. We took a crock pot of pork and sauerkraut over to Kevin and Sally's house, drank a bottle of wine, ate well, and then challenged four pints of Ben and Jerrys--and won! (I don't think we quite finished off the ice cream, though we made an impressive dent). And we laughed a lot--the best medicine of all. And they gave us a disc of "Chopped--" seven episodes of culinary competition. I think I can tear Martin away from the applications long enough to watch one before bedtime. Who will survive to the dessert round? I'm getting excited just thinking about it.
But now I feel better. We took a crock pot of pork and sauerkraut over to Kevin and Sally's house, drank a bottle of wine, ate well, and then challenged four pints of Ben and Jerrys--and won! (I don't think we quite finished off the ice cream, though we made an impressive dent). And we laughed a lot--the best medicine of all. And they gave us a disc of "Chopped--" seven episodes of culinary competition. I think I can tear Martin away from the applications long enough to watch one before bedtime. Who will survive to the dessert round? I'm getting excited just thinking about it.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
There are unbearable sweetnesses that I will miss. Sitting in the sunroom, the windows flung upon to the garden, robins and cardinals hopping about in the paths softened by leaves, a cup of tea warming my hands. The swelling music of the teapot at night mingling with the quiet roar of the heat kicking on; the creak of stairs, known to me in the dark when all the lights have been turned off before bedtime. And of course opening doors to houses that are not ours and seeing welcoming smiles encompassing us and our children, a scrape of a kitchen chair, long mornings of talk and evenings of laughter.
Now that I know there is an end to this chapter in our lives, I am struggling to remain in the sweetness of each moment. Sitting in the sunnroom this afternoon, I remembered what it was like to look at the garden and see years of work unfolding, wondering how tall the quaking aspens--planted our first fall six years ago--would grow and plotting paths and new beds. I found myself longing for that safe, warm feeling of time unfolding gently in front of me.
I tried to express some of that feeling to Martin, because it made me feel as if I was succumbing to an easy smallness. Martin looked over the rim of his teacup and said, "It's funny, what's happened to me since I found out we'd be leaving. I began to look at all this, and realize it for what it was--a stopping place for us, not a permanent place."
Tonight in my inbox I received a message that should have gone to spam, from the Highlights Foundation. I didn't open it but the subject line caught me: "In revision lies the story." Our lives are constantly being revised, in small ways or large, whether we welcome the changes or not. I don't ever want to find myself in a place where I refuse revision--then I will be looking at that blank, horrible wall that means I have welcomed mediocrity. But I am astonished at the big revisions that life has thrown at me, and most of them I have not sought.
Thankfully, with each revision there is much grace--more than the spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down. There are unexpected rainstorms of mercy, and they often soak me when I am feeling most barren.
So though I have counted multiple, hitherto-unseen white hairs on Martin's head in the last two weeks (not a joke), I am trying to both dwell in the sweetness of each moment here while keeping my hands open. I just want to be ready to walk through the next door, weary and a little travelworn, but with my fingers ready to receive what is next.
In the meantime, I am enjoying the solace of our dear family--my mother who took care of our kids while Martin and I went to a conference for a few days, and then helped me clean out some of the darkest, dingiest places in my house--and our dear friends who have practically bombarded us with their generosity. I keep saying, "Yes, yes, please!" I think it's my duty and my pleasure, at this point in our lives, to take all the grace handed to me without dithering.
I also enjoyed, quite unexpectedly, learning of a petition site for Martin--just look up Martin by his first and last name and add "petition." I don't know who set it up, and Martin won't look at it--he's trying to keep out of the fray as much as possible--but I found it a lovely experience, to read notes from people who have known and loved him. I don't read it with any anger, just with a deep appreciation of our time here, the students Martin knew, many of whom who have sat in around our table and shared their lives with us. We are so grateful.
Now that I know there is an end to this chapter in our lives, I am struggling to remain in the sweetness of each moment. Sitting in the sunnroom this afternoon, I remembered what it was like to look at the garden and see years of work unfolding, wondering how tall the quaking aspens--planted our first fall six years ago--would grow and plotting paths and new beds. I found myself longing for that safe, warm feeling of time unfolding gently in front of me.
I tried to express some of that feeling to Martin, because it made me feel as if I was succumbing to an easy smallness. Martin looked over the rim of his teacup and said, "It's funny, what's happened to me since I found out we'd be leaving. I began to look at all this, and realize it for what it was--a stopping place for us, not a permanent place."
Tonight in my inbox I received a message that should have gone to spam, from the Highlights Foundation. I didn't open it but the subject line caught me: "In revision lies the story." Our lives are constantly being revised, in small ways or large, whether we welcome the changes or not. I don't ever want to find myself in a place where I refuse revision--then I will be looking at that blank, horrible wall that means I have welcomed mediocrity. But I am astonished at the big revisions that life has thrown at me, and most of them I have not sought.
Thankfully, with each revision there is much grace--more than the spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down. There are unexpected rainstorms of mercy, and they often soak me when I am feeling most barren.
So though I have counted multiple, hitherto-unseen white hairs on Martin's head in the last two weeks (not a joke), I am trying to both dwell in the sweetness of each moment here while keeping my hands open. I just want to be ready to walk through the next door, weary and a little travelworn, but with my fingers ready to receive what is next.
In the meantime, I am enjoying the solace of our dear family--my mother who took care of our kids while Martin and I went to a conference for a few days, and then helped me clean out some of the darkest, dingiest places in my house--and our dear friends who have practically bombarded us with their generosity. I keep saying, "Yes, yes, please!" I think it's my duty and my pleasure, at this point in our lives, to take all the grace handed to me without dithering.
I also enjoyed, quite unexpectedly, learning of a petition site for Martin--just look up Martin by his first and last name and add "petition." I don't know who set it up, and Martin won't look at it--he's trying to keep out of the fray as much as possible--but I found it a lovely experience, to read notes from people who have known and loved him. I don't read it with any anger, just with a deep appreciation of our time here, the students Martin knew, many of whom who have sat in around our table and shared their lives with us. We are so grateful.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
I'm sitting in our sunroom, which is warm as an oven, listening to my mother reading Curious George to Bea and her friend, Ethan. That is a true act of love--this particular Curious George book goes on and on, a series of incidents loosely connected by careless disasters. . .hmm. Sounds familiar.
It's been an exhausting few days here. I have been forcing myself to eat regularly, even when my stomach feels as though it's been shaken. I don't even know what to write here. Details have unfolded which are bewildering, shocking, and deeply troubling. Those of you whom we know well here, please don't hide your anger or sadness when you are with us. It helps us to live vicariously through you as we continue to try to live through this with grace.
In the middle of all of it, I feel protected, as if each of you who love us have built thick walls of love around us. Like Ethan or Bea inside of their tent this morning that I built for them out of chairs and blankets, I sit inside of this shady, precious place, and I am so grateful.
I wish I could write more, I wish I could explain more. Maybe someday, hopefully soon.
In the meanwhile, we've had some good belly laughs. Some things are humorous, especially when we can step back and look at things objectively. Some things are too sad to laugh at, but we're trying to find a way. On Saturday night, we attended a magic show at the University. During the amazing finale, the magician asked for a volunteer. Martin sprung up on the stage with a jaunty step.
The magician shouted, "For my next trip, sir, I will need to borrow your career."
Martin obliged.
The magician held it up--a heavy thing with carefully sanded sides--for the audience. "Look carefully at it from every angle," the magician said. "From the top! The sides! The bottom!" We gazed at it. It was a beautiful thing.
Then the magician whisked his cape over it. "Presto!" he shouted, and there was a puff of smoke. The audience gave an audible gasp. It was gone--disappeared into thin air. Slight of hand, the magician bowed and Martin descended the stage. Nobody knew why it had disappeared. Nobody knew how or when.
Surprisingly, Martin seemed intact, even though he'd lost this wonderful thing--he sighed deeply as he came back to his seat. "Well, I guess this isn't the place for me any more," he said. The audience was done, too. They stood up and left with us, and we all went out for a drink and to wonder about how the trick had been executed.
And over the next few days, we learned about the trick that made the thing disappear into thin air, and it wasn't such a great mysterious magic after all. And Martin walked back to the stage and found it where it had dropped to the floor, and it was better, smoother, and more beautiful for its fumbled fall--and he put it under his arm and we left again, to walk on to a good place.
It was supposed to be funny but now it just seems tragic, especially after I talked to Martin this afternoon, and heard his voice--exhausted, wearied, drained. I keep thinking things will get easier, and they will. When I think of how fast our lives have changed, I feel dizzy and nauseous. I'll keep returning to the tent to sit for a while, to center myself before walking back out into the fray.
It's been an exhausting few days here. I have been forcing myself to eat regularly, even when my stomach feels as though it's been shaken. I don't even know what to write here. Details have unfolded which are bewildering, shocking, and deeply troubling. Those of you whom we know well here, please don't hide your anger or sadness when you are with us. It helps us to live vicariously through you as we continue to try to live through this with grace.
In the middle of all of it, I feel protected, as if each of you who love us have built thick walls of love around us. Like Ethan or Bea inside of their tent this morning that I built for them out of chairs and blankets, I sit inside of this shady, precious place, and I am so grateful.
I wish I could write more, I wish I could explain more. Maybe someday, hopefully soon.
In the meanwhile, we've had some good belly laughs. Some things are humorous, especially when we can step back and look at things objectively. Some things are too sad to laugh at, but we're trying to find a way. On Saturday night, we attended a magic show at the University. During the amazing finale, the magician asked for a volunteer. Martin sprung up on the stage with a jaunty step.
The magician shouted, "For my next trip, sir, I will need to borrow your career."
Martin obliged.
The magician held it up--a heavy thing with carefully sanded sides--for the audience. "Look carefully at it from every angle," the magician said. "From the top! The sides! The bottom!" We gazed at it. It was a beautiful thing.
Then the magician whisked his cape over it. "Presto!" he shouted, and there was a puff of smoke. The audience gave an audible gasp. It was gone--disappeared into thin air. Slight of hand, the magician bowed and Martin descended the stage. Nobody knew why it had disappeared. Nobody knew how or when.
Surprisingly, Martin seemed intact, even though he'd lost this wonderful thing--he sighed deeply as he came back to his seat. "Well, I guess this isn't the place for me any more," he said. The audience was done, too. They stood up and left with us, and we all went out for a drink and to wonder about how the trick had been executed.
And over the next few days, we learned about the trick that made the thing disappear into thin air, and it wasn't such a great mysterious magic after all. And Martin walked back to the stage and found it where it had dropped to the floor, and it was better, smoother, and more beautiful for its fumbled fall--and he put it under his arm and we left again, to walk on to a good place.
It was supposed to be funny but now it just seems tragic, especially after I talked to Martin this afternoon, and heard his voice--exhausted, wearied, drained. I keep thinking things will get easier, and they will. When I think of how fast our lives have changed, I feel dizzy and nauseous. I'll keep returning to the tent to sit for a while, to center myself before walking back out into the fray.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
On Thursday, I walked home from Sally's house through an unusually warm, beautiful afternoon. The sun illuminated the roofs of the University on the hill and the earth smelled warm, of thawing and early spring. The first robin I've seen in months hopped toward a round carpet of delicate white snowdrops. Beatrix ran up and down hills that I have come to know so well.
Earlier that afternoon, Sally and I had been raking leaves away from her bulbs, clipping back a bush already studded with pink buds. Bea and her buddy, Will, ran around the yard, yelling to each other, making a muddy hill covered with sycamore sticks. They have known each other since Will's birth three years ago. Sal and I have known each other like sisters through many years. In many ways, she is my link to the wider community of Greene County; she is my thread to her fine family, whom she shares with me generously, but more importantly, she has been my sister through the many happinesses and griefs of the past years, one of many dear friends here who have brought us so much joy.
Finally we reached home; the bus whined by and Elspeth and Merry burst in the door. Shortly after their arrival and the flurry of snacks and school news, the mail carrier arrived and rang the doorbell. "Certified letter for you," she said.
I signed the form. "Isn't it a lovely day?" I asked, and she agreed.
We met Martin out on a little bricked street not far from our house, where we extended our walk through the warm afternoon. Elspeth and Bea ran ahead down the broken sidewalk. Martin told me about his day; we discussed how, despite its many imperfections, this place where we live is a good place, full of beauty and grace.
At home I handed him the envelope from the University, where he has unconditionally poured his energy, love, and thought for the last almost seven years. He slit the envelope and pulled out one piece of paper. There was a moment of silence as we stared at the letter. Martin looked up at me with stunned eyes. "I was not granted tenure or promotion," he said.
In that moment, our entire reality shifted, almost as if the room had comically swung around in a full circle. It was the singular feeling that I have experienced only a few times in my life: the sudden shattering of what you hoped was certain, the entrance of a new and unwelcome reality.
For those of you who are not familiar with academia, this letter means that Martin will be employed at the University for one more year. After that, we are cut loose.
In the past day, we have reeled with the new reality of our situation. We have felt upset but mostly we have felt deeply grieved, faced now with the very likely conclusion of our time here: a sudden move, the uprooting of our children from people they have known since birth, or for Merry, since she was two; the departure from a community that we have tirelessly invested ourselves in. There are many things that we weep for.
But we are overcome by gratitude for the support of our community, both here and elsewhere. Martin feels support from his colleagues; we can't get into the details of the situation, but suffice it to say that Martin does not feel betrayed by anyone whom he deeply trusted, and so the sense of betrayal is small and much easier to forgive; betrayal by those whom you trust and love is shattering and that, mercifully, we have been spared in every respect.
Martin and I both reflected that this past 30 hours has been much like being at your own funeral, annointed by the love of many good people. Martin's job may have been taken from him, but the things that really make us who we are--our family, our vision and convictions, the many threads of love from so many people--these things nobody can ever take from us, not really, because they are held by God's hands, and in that place, we are truly safe.
Last night, Sally saw Luis, Nancy's oldest son, at the grocery store. "Did you hear about Uncle Martin?" he asked her. "I'm going to do what I can for him," he said, "Because he's family."
What more could we ask for? Family, near and far, surrounding us with the currents of their love. We are more grateful and humbled than we can express.
Earlier that afternoon, Sally and I had been raking leaves away from her bulbs, clipping back a bush already studded with pink buds. Bea and her buddy, Will, ran around the yard, yelling to each other, making a muddy hill covered with sycamore sticks. They have known each other since Will's birth three years ago. Sal and I have known each other like sisters through many years. In many ways, she is my link to the wider community of Greene County; she is my thread to her fine family, whom she shares with me generously, but more importantly, she has been my sister through the many happinesses and griefs of the past years, one of many dear friends here who have brought us so much joy.
Finally we reached home; the bus whined by and Elspeth and Merry burst in the door. Shortly after their arrival and the flurry of snacks and school news, the mail carrier arrived and rang the doorbell. "Certified letter for you," she said.
I signed the form. "Isn't it a lovely day?" I asked, and she agreed.
We met Martin out on a little bricked street not far from our house, where we extended our walk through the warm afternoon. Elspeth and Bea ran ahead down the broken sidewalk. Martin told me about his day; we discussed how, despite its many imperfections, this place where we live is a good place, full of beauty and grace.
At home I handed him the envelope from the University, where he has unconditionally poured his energy, love, and thought for the last almost seven years. He slit the envelope and pulled out one piece of paper. There was a moment of silence as we stared at the letter. Martin looked up at me with stunned eyes. "I was not granted tenure or promotion," he said.
In that moment, our entire reality shifted, almost as if the room had comically swung around in a full circle. It was the singular feeling that I have experienced only a few times in my life: the sudden shattering of what you hoped was certain, the entrance of a new and unwelcome reality.
For those of you who are not familiar with academia, this letter means that Martin will be employed at the University for one more year. After that, we are cut loose.
In the past day, we have reeled with the new reality of our situation. We have felt upset but mostly we have felt deeply grieved, faced now with the very likely conclusion of our time here: a sudden move, the uprooting of our children from people they have known since birth, or for Merry, since she was two; the departure from a community that we have tirelessly invested ourselves in. There are many things that we weep for.
But we are overcome by gratitude for the support of our community, both here and elsewhere. Martin feels support from his colleagues; we can't get into the details of the situation, but suffice it to say that Martin does not feel betrayed by anyone whom he deeply trusted, and so the sense of betrayal is small and much easier to forgive; betrayal by those whom you trust and love is shattering and that, mercifully, we have been spared in every respect.
Martin and I both reflected that this past 30 hours has been much like being at your own funeral, annointed by the love of many good people. Martin's job may have been taken from him, but the things that really make us who we are--our family, our vision and convictions, the many threads of love from so many people--these things nobody can ever take from us, not really, because they are held by God's hands, and in that place, we are truly safe.
Last night, Sally saw Luis, Nancy's oldest son, at the grocery store. "Did you hear about Uncle Martin?" he asked her. "I'm going to do what I can for him," he said, "Because he's family."
What more could we ask for? Family, near and far, surrounding us with the currents of their love. We are more grateful and humbled than we can express.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
More from Red Barn Farm, the small paradise belonging to Llew and Jeannie Williams. Of course, it's a paradise they have to work at morning, noon, and night, and therefore one that I was happy to experience but happy to leave in their capable hands.
Martin took all the photos in a visual journal that is incredibly lengthy for the brief half day we spent there. He saw the farm through the camera lens and I saw it through my tape recorder, which I took along with me to help me with an article later. Much of our lives, I guess, are filtered through such lenses; I realized lately when I started working on a new project that everything I have been collecting and haven't had the time to translate into story had come pouring out, rather too crystal clear for the comfort of fiction. So I took the truth and looked at it slant, as a writer once put so well. Fiction is wonderful for taking all the details of our lives and shaking them up like a Boggle game, rewording them all.
Beware, friends of writers, for what you say--the stories you tell and the landscapes you reveal--are all tucked away, squares for an upcoming quilt. Every feather, every little chicken step. :)
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
CATS
Yesterday Martin and I turned our heads away from our steaming tea cups for a moment and caught this impossible vision: down the hill, a veritable convention of seven black and white cats sat in a perfect circle. In the middle of the circle, another cat lay on his back, one paw extended into the air. He luxuriated on the grass and pointed in the air again in provocative way. Another cat took him up on his challenge and--I can't help it--pussyfooted into the ring and pounced on him. They rolled about and the circle dispersed.
We went back to our tea.
About five minutes later, we looked back down the hill and the cats had reconvened, in exactly the same formation, but this time more centrally in our yard. The same thing happened again; the cat-in-the-middle, the playful tussle, the cats scattering. They played follow-the-leader over to the trunk of the Black Walnut, where they watched one scramble up the bark after a bird. They seemed to be having a wonderful time.
Cats rule Wazoo Farm. As many of you know, I can't get anywhere near cats without swelling like a balloon or scratching my own eyes out. But these cats are different than your average house cat. They're like little gods fallen from heaven; they prowl proudly around the garden; they all have their own paths and patterns, and they seem to be utterly careless of our existence, except when we startle them and they streak off into the sky. We don't know where they live. They are great, heavy, sleek beasts with gleaming coats and certain paws.
I watched one pick his way delicately through a foot of snow last winter, finding the prints of a cat-gone-before and fitting his paws precisely into each indentation.
At night they wail like primordial spirits.
This afternoon Martin and I (yes, we were drinking tea again), craned our necks out the window and saw a cat, black as coal, sitting on the edge of our deck, swishing his tail. He was watching something and I heard him mew. But then I realized his mouth was not opening. I did not think he was a ventriloquist. So I stood up with my tea cup and leaned farther toward the window pane. A huge white cat, its fur standing up and its back arched, was facing down a third cat--I know not what he was in face or manner--I was too consumed by the white cat, who was magnificent.
Martin banged on the window. They did not heed him.
I went to the other window, slid it open and chided them: "No fighting, kitties!" The white cat fixed me with a stare that told me she did not care to be condescended to, but they evaporated into the afternoon.
They will be back. It's a jungle out there. And apparently it's all theirs.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Elspeth lies on the couch next to me, her eyes heavy with sleep and fever. I picked her up early from school today and she's been sacked out the couch ever since. On the way home I knew her sickness couldn't be too desperate since she suggested that the thing that would make her feel better the fastest would be a cheeseburger from McDonalds. But she genuinely has a fever, and though she chowed two bowls of mac 'n cheese and four Tylenols, she's still warm and sleepy. Her feet are nestled behind my back and her hair, swept off her face, is tinged with gold.
Outside it's beautiful and sunny; the bare redbud trees gleam in the late afternoon. Elspeth keeps saying, "You're the nicest mama in the world. There couldn't be a nicer mommy than you. Can I kiss your forehead since I'm sick?"
I've been a parent for over ten years now. The other night Merry looked up at me from her pillow and said: "I'm getting really old. In only eight years I'll be gone at college." What?
Tired of TV, we're listening to some old hymns. . .Oh, Love, that will not let me go. . .This particular rendition, gospel meets soul, is over-the-top silly ("The music, not the words, sound like something that would be on the Cosby Show," Merry commented) but the words themselves, the knowledge that I am held tenaciously by love, fill me with gratitude.
There are many things I love being about a parent, but the quiet moments are often my favorite, when one of the children slows down--and I slow down--to enter these quiet, hallowed moments when time is nothing but a suggestion somewhere else in a busy world, when the very air is charged with tenderness.
Outside it's beautiful and sunny; the bare redbud trees gleam in the late afternoon. Elspeth keeps saying, "You're the nicest mama in the world. There couldn't be a nicer mommy than you. Can I kiss your forehead since I'm sick?"
I've been a parent for over ten years now. The other night Merry looked up at me from her pillow and said: "I'm getting really old. In only eight years I'll be gone at college." What?
Tired of TV, we're listening to some old hymns. . .Oh, Love, that will not let me go. . .This particular rendition, gospel meets soul, is over-the-top silly ("The music, not the words, sound like something that would be on the Cosby Show," Merry commented) but the words themselves, the knowledge that I am held tenaciously by love, fill me with gratitude.
There are many things I love being about a parent, but the quiet moments are often my favorite, when one of the children slows down--and I slow down--to enter these quiet, hallowed moments when time is nothing but a suggestion somewhere else in a busy world, when the very air is charged with tenderness.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
When Merry finished A Wrinkle in Time the other night, I realized I'd need to read it again if I were to discuss it intelligently with her. I remembered parts of the book (in particular, I remember a vague feeling that I should memorize a great deal more than I had in high school if I were to ever battle a giant, disembodied, evil Brain), but the rest was fuzzy.
So last night I stayed up half the night and read Madeline L'Engle's classic again. I was so spooked by IT and its control of Meg's little brother that, at midnight, when I moved my reading upstairs to bed, I couldn't bring myself to drop off my tea cup in a dark, lonely kitchen. I left it on the hall table and dashed up to bed where I finished the book in peace, switched off the light, and marvelled at L'Engle's brilliance.
Reading the book as an adult and as a writer was interesting; I was caught up in the narrative but I was detached enough to think, when the star's song is taken straight from the Psalms, "That was risky. I wouldn't have tried that. . ." and wonder at the sheer intelligence of the writing, how Mrs. Who pulled quotes seemingly out of thin air and how L'Engle mesmerized us with math. . . .and how the book, when studied in little pieces, was not as brilliant as the whole, which shimmers with the qualities of true Myth.
I can't give too much away, because Martin (gasp) has never read it. I'm switching books with him as soon as he finishes rereading "Asher Lev" which I'm sure I must have read in my Potok phase but can't remember. (Did I ever tell you I read Vanity Fair twice, and the second time didn't realize it was a reread until I was almost half-way through?)
If you haven't read L'Engle in a while, I highly recommend a revisit--wonderful stuff for midwinter days. And a reminder, too, of what is real, what is worth pursuing--and fighting for--in life and art.
So last night I stayed up half the night and read Madeline L'Engle's classic again. I was so spooked by IT and its control of Meg's little brother that, at midnight, when I moved my reading upstairs to bed, I couldn't bring myself to drop off my tea cup in a dark, lonely kitchen. I left it on the hall table and dashed up to bed where I finished the book in peace, switched off the light, and marvelled at L'Engle's brilliance.
Reading the book as an adult and as a writer was interesting; I was caught up in the narrative but I was detached enough to think, when the star's song is taken straight from the Psalms, "That was risky. I wouldn't have tried that. . ." and wonder at the sheer intelligence of the writing, how Mrs. Who pulled quotes seemingly out of thin air and how L'Engle mesmerized us with math. . . .and how the book, when studied in little pieces, was not as brilliant as the whole, which shimmers with the qualities of true Myth.
I can't give too much away, because Martin (gasp) has never read it. I'm switching books with him as soon as he finishes rereading "Asher Lev" which I'm sure I must have read in my Potok phase but can't remember. (Did I ever tell you I read Vanity Fair twice, and the second time didn't realize it was a reread until I was almost half-way through?)
If you haven't read L'Engle in a while, I highly recommend a revisit--wonderful stuff for midwinter days. And a reminder, too, of what is real, what is worth pursuing--and fighting for--in life and art.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Our Favorite Family Valentine
It has to be the one my first-grade brother (who had immersed himself in the world of Calvin and Hobbes) sent to his teacher, a short sweet elderly lady named Ms. Miller.
Dear Miss Miller [he scrawled on a paper heart],
I hate you. Drop dead.
Love,
Kenton
At the parent-teacher conference that immediately followed Kenton's missive, white-haired Ms. Miller pulled the valentine out of her desk and said in a bewildered, sad way, "I just don't understand it. He's such a sweet boy."
My parents didn't ban Calvin and Hobbes, but they did have a little discussion with my brother on CONTEXT and how it does or does not contribute to humor. Or to love notes, for that matter.
Dear Miss Miller [he scrawled on a paper heart],
I hate you. Drop dead.
Love,
Kenton
At the parent-teacher conference that immediately followed Kenton's missive, white-haired Ms. Miller pulled the valentine out of her desk and said in a bewildered, sad way, "I just don't understand it. He's such a sweet boy."
My parents didn't ban Calvin and Hobbes, but they did have a little discussion with my brother on CONTEXT and how it does or does not contribute to humor. Or to love notes, for that matter.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Cinderella and the Pulitzer Prize
At this moment, a Pulitzer-winning poet is stacking some papers on a podium. She's clearing her throat and thanking the person who introduced her. Maybe she's smiling or maybe she's bowing her head for a moment before beginning to read. Whatever she's doing, I'm not there.
Unexpectedly, at the end of today, which has been marked by kids (like all my days are), and significantly, has been full of joy and contentment, I am now feeling a bit like Cinderella left behind at the ball. Martin rushed out the door, cup of tea in hand, to walk to the event, and I finished the dishes and sat down in the disheveled dining room (which I've cleaned up already twice today). As I sank lower in the morass of my own personal misery, I heard my mother's voice telling me to stop being such a baby and empower myself. I could have arranged to go tonight. I don't need to wait for a fairy godmother. I could have hired a babysitter.
But then I argued back: in an age when women are supposed to be empowered, why is it that we have to remind ourselves to BE empowered, when, for many men, that is already assumed? I thought about telling Cinderella: These people don't own you. Shake free of this learned helplessness. Get a microloan. Go out and start your own business, one chicken at a time.
And I told myself: Come on. Nobody's oppressing you. Think ahead and find a babysitter next time. At home instead of at the poetry reading? You have nobody to blame but yourself.
And I told myself (and this is related, believe it or not): Be more disciplined and write your book.
To add a humorous note to my frustration (by making me see myself in a more realistic light) Merry just got frustrated over a bookmark that she decorated (to enter in a contest) that she decorated with the motto: Fly Away With Your Imagination and READ!. She started listing genres on the bookmark: Fantasy, Mystery. . .She wants to add: Realistic Fiction, Fiction, Etc., and draw pictures.
"I just don't think there's enough room on the bookmark." I was pointing out the obvious, a fact that already had her worked up.
"But the judges will think I just picked two random genres," she argued passionately. "They want something more than this. These days. . ." She trailed off as if the world is a hard nut to crack. Then she got that Merry look that warns me she is overwhelmed and about to cry. "I just don't want to talk about this anymore," she said, and filed the bookmark back in her folder.
Already in fourth grade and she's feeling the same roadblocks as I do now. And I have to wonder, how many are from the world, and how many are from our own expectations of what we as women should be accomplishing, even though we accomplish an awful lot?
Just today I had to tell myself to relax and enjoy life. There's nothing you absolutely have to do today, I reminded myself. . .And in the end, I did enough today (not least of all, I drank endless cups of tea to try to cure my stubborn sinus cold), and I wrote my column for the week. . .but even now I'm chastising myself for not writing thirty minutes on my latest project and not planning ahead for the Pulitzer poet. Finally, I can add to my list: Figure a way out for Cinderella. Come up with an economic plan and the right words to make her stand up and leave the fireplace. I can't just leave her waiting around for her fairy godmother. And surely she has better places to go than to a ball.
Unexpectedly, at the end of today, which has been marked by kids (like all my days are), and significantly, has been full of joy and contentment, I am now feeling a bit like Cinderella left behind at the ball. Martin rushed out the door, cup of tea in hand, to walk to the event, and I finished the dishes and sat down in the disheveled dining room (which I've cleaned up already twice today). As I sank lower in the morass of my own personal misery, I heard my mother's voice telling me to stop being such a baby and empower myself. I could have arranged to go tonight. I don't need to wait for a fairy godmother. I could have hired a babysitter.
But then I argued back: in an age when women are supposed to be empowered, why is it that we have to remind ourselves to BE empowered, when, for many men, that is already assumed? I thought about telling Cinderella: These people don't own you. Shake free of this learned helplessness. Get a microloan. Go out and start your own business, one chicken at a time.
And I told myself: Come on. Nobody's oppressing you. Think ahead and find a babysitter next time. At home instead of at the poetry reading? You have nobody to blame but yourself.
And I told myself (and this is related, believe it or not): Be more disciplined and write your book.
To add a humorous note to my frustration (by making me see myself in a more realistic light) Merry just got frustrated over a bookmark that she decorated (to enter in a contest) that she decorated with the motto: Fly Away With Your Imagination and READ!. She started listing genres on the bookmark: Fantasy, Mystery. . .She wants to add: Realistic Fiction, Fiction, Etc., and draw pictures.
"I just don't think there's enough room on the bookmark." I was pointing out the obvious, a fact that already had her worked up.
"But the judges will think I just picked two random genres," she argued passionately. "They want something more than this. These days. . ." She trailed off as if the world is a hard nut to crack. Then she got that Merry look that warns me she is overwhelmed and about to cry. "I just don't want to talk about this anymore," she said, and filed the bookmark back in her folder.
Already in fourth grade and she's feeling the same roadblocks as I do now. And I have to wonder, how many are from the world, and how many are from our own expectations of what we as women should be accomplishing, even though we accomplish an awful lot?
Just today I had to tell myself to relax and enjoy life. There's nothing you absolutely have to do today, I reminded myself. . .And in the end, I did enough today (not least of all, I drank endless cups of tea to try to cure my stubborn sinus cold), and I wrote my column for the week. . .but even now I'm chastising myself for not writing thirty minutes on my latest project and not planning ahead for the Pulitzer poet. Finally, I can add to my list: Figure a way out for Cinderella. Come up with an economic plan and the right words to make her stand up and leave the fireplace. I can't just leave her waiting around for her fairy godmother. And surely she has better places to go than to a ball.
Off to Red Barn Farm
We spent last Sunday at Red Barn Farm, a self-sustaining dream come true. Jeannie Williams, a burnt-out preschool teacher, was inspired by Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable. . ." and went to work with an astounding energy. I wanted to glean a couple of articles so I carried around my tape recorder all morning,
in the chicken coop and goat pens, 
up muddy hills, and in the warmth of a hoop house lined with spinach, bak choy, and other gorgeous winter crops. 
Look at those nannies, so protective of their kids; they could hear them from across the barn and would charge off looking for one, nosing it back safely among the other babies.
Here's Elspeth standing in front of a cunning structure built by a local artisan, all by hand with stone, into a hillside. It looks like a hobbit should live there but it's actually a cellar where Jeannie Williams stores her jams.
To read the sweet, syrupy story of our trip to Red Barn Farm (which is mostly about Llew Williams' maple tapping operation), click here.
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