No Coward Soul Is Mine

No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's
storm-troubled sphere

Emily Bronte, from "No Coward Soul Is Mine"

the truth

There's nothing wrong with stretching the Truth. We stretch taffy, and that just makes it more delicious.

- Stephen Colbert

... all the sad young literary men

"She had enormous green eyes and held her back straight and walked like a ballerina, the heel just in front of the toe, and she spoke English with such a proper, old world reserve that Mark wanted to help, to put his arms around her, to tell her it was OK."

- Keith Gessen, All the Sad Young Literary Men

paglia on palin and abortion rights

Camile Paglia ruminates on the Sarah Palin pick, explains the ensuing Democratic freak-out, and wonders if abortion rights need necessarily be wedded to the women's movement. I like Paglia's thinking, and appreciate her ability to step outside feminism and survey the political landscape in its entirety.

Nevertheless, I have criticized the way that abortion became the obsessive idée fixe of the post-1960s women's movement -- leading to feminists' McCarthyite tactics in pitting Anita Hill with her flimsy charges against conservative Clarence Thoma(admittedly not the most qualified candidate possible) during his nomination hearings for the Supreme Court. Similarly, Bill Clinton's support for abortion rights gave him a free pass among leading feminists for his serial exploitation of women -- an abusive pattern that would scream misogyny to any neutral observer ....

It is nonsensical and counterproductive for Democrats to imagine that pro-life values can be defeated by maliciously destroying their proponents. And it is equally foolish to expect that feminism must for all time be inextricably wed to the pro-choice agenda. There is plenty of room in modern thought for a pro-life feminism -- one in fact that would have far more appeal to third-world cultures where motherhood is still honored and where the Western model of the hard-driving, self-absorbed career woman is less admired.

ugandan preacher boy

Muwanguzi's name means the victor or conqueror.
But is his message getting through?

A gentleman sitting at a bar nearby says: "We need to dig down a bit, and find out exactly what inspired him to come out onto street. "Is it divine? Is he trained to do that? Or indoctrinated?" the gentleman asks, sipping on a beer.

A woman cuts in, saying: "You wonder what makes a young person like him come onto the street and preach like he does? He's so strange but I think that people might take him seriously."

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7561512.stm

since feeling is first

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry--
the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis

- e. e. cummings

here is my secret. it is very simple.

"Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."

My rough translation: "Here is my secret. It is very simple. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.

Antoine de Saint Exupéry, Le Petit Prince

magic in a voice

I have been listening to sermons from my old church in Chicago.

The instant I hear my old pastor's voice, I am transported back to that church. I am sitting in the middle section, ten rows back, where I sat surrounded by trusted friends. I see prayer ministers with white robes and kind smiles (and one in particular's fearsome eyebrows -- like giant mustaches). I hear E., my dear friend, chewing gum, see her huge rhinestone celebrity shades perched atop her head. She whispers that she'll give me ten bucks if I dance in the aisle. And we giggle, like middle schoolers.

And I remember how I came to know, there in that holy place, that God was my shield, that he wept with me when I wept, and that his fingers were working in my heart, and that he wanted to take my burdens, and that I could set my compass on him, even as my hands shook, even though the woods seemed so dark.

And that he had made us each so different, but that through his sacrifice, he had made possible the sharing of trust and meaning.

One word. I am transported back, and washed over in God's faithfulness. It's as real as a good friend's hug, or the shafts of light flickering on the altar, or the communion wine's burning on the way down.

To lend credence to this post, to clean up this "spontaneous overflow of emotion," I should probably whip out my Walter Ong right now. Or my Marshall McLuhan. I could talk about the medium and the message, the transformative, communal power of sound, as opposed to the individulastic sterility of the written word. But I don't want to, somehow ...

Walking in Fog by Barry Goldensohn

Everything looms at me. Hound's-tongue
with wet doggy leaves and blue flowers
starts up from the mist-streaked hillside.
Standing by itself, framed in fog
the live oak twists black arms above me,
an embrace, free of the crown of leaves that hides
the outlines of limbs in the crowded background view.
The canyon and the next hill disappear.

An owl on a low branch sits in its silhouette
in the white flame of a wild cherry
and a tiny wren weaves through the sagebrush,
singing as it stops then flashes back in.

Plunging into dense puffs and gusts of fog
along the road a dying friend wheels
and lunges from cliff wall to cliff edge
in a bright yellow blouse and blue jeans
joyous with losing herself and coming back
in daily magic, you see me then you don't.

faith is a ragged garment

"His faith was not a seamless garment but a ragged garment with the seams showing, the tears showing, a garment that he clutched about him like a man in a storm." -- Frederich Buechner on James Muilenberg

On Republican Veepstakes

"I wonder if McCain was trying to compete with Obama who has all these young ladies with crushes on him. He knew he had to get a hot VP ticket -- someone people would have crushes on."

- a friend reflects on McCain's pick of Sarah Palin, Governer of Alaska, for VP

thoughts on choosing

I read today on the BBC News web site that as Kenyans vote on a new draft of their constitution, citizens must choose between the banana (the symbol for "yes") and the orange (which signifies "no"). What a wonderfully simple image of something we must do every day of our lives: make a choice between two exclusives. The banana represents one future for a country, the orange, another.

I am sprawled on my bed before yoga. I am thinking about choices.

Will you take a banana, or an orange, madame?
Neither. I require chocolate-covered strawberries. See it done.

I am actually really eating chocolate-covered strawberries, because my roommate made some. I am savoring their juciness, and thinking that hard as I try, I cannot seem to mold these thoughts about choosing into something sleek and presentable. The thoughts are jagged, and slap against one another. Wave upon wave.

Thought #1: Choosing, I am coming to find, is inherently risky business. I hate it.

Thought #2: However, I am also learning that making decisions is as necessary part of sailing on this gorgeous and terrible sea of faith. In choosing, we learn to respond to what comes our way: riptides, teasing winds, Siren songs etc. In choosing how we respond to obstacles and opportunities, we are most painfully aware of our human frailty. Because even in putting the best we have into choices, we sometimes get slammed, thrown overboard, and come up sputtering salt. At least, I do.

Thought #3: But in choosing -- charting a course -- we find our adventure, find what we are made of, and find our God. Thank you, God, for the chance to use our muscles and minds and hearts, for the chance to stumble out upon stubby, inexperienced land-legs.

Thought #4: While it can feel like I'm risking less by not choosing, I'm often risking a lot more by my inaction. Choice is unavoidable, and failing to choose can be foolish. Dangerous. It's good to be thoughtful and take time in decisions, but life offers such things as "windows of opportunity," and as we mull and muse, the favorable breeze dispels, and is gone.

Thought #5: "Goodbyes" are the hardest choice for me. Well, oftentimes, goodbye is not a choice. But it is in putting limits on friendships that I most acutely feel the weight of the Fall, and that I most often rage against the Way of Things. No, I will not be quiet. No, I will not be silent. The loss of you tears my heart. The thespian in me would like to rend my garments, wander the desert and refuse speech. But there is no desert around here, and the American mourning rituals, or lack thereof, are not big enough for loss. So I just write and go to Starbucks.

Thought #6: It would be nice, wouldn't it, if all our choices boiled down to To Sin or Not to Sin. Most of the ones I wrestle with do not. They are ... should I be in this play? Should I date this person? Should I go to this grad school, God? Should I wear these pink pants with this purple shirt (answer: no, Laura. No! Neutrals are your friends!). Should I eat a banana or an orange?

Thought #7: I possess the unfortuante tendency of evaluating the success of my decision-making processes by result. When things work out my way, I congratulate myself on decisions well-made, even if I was not careful in my choice. Conversely, when I take a risk, and fall on my face, I chastise myself for not selecting the other option, even if I've grown stronger or more honest by making the difficult choice. Perhaps the challenge was, in and of itself, the reward, rather than the prize I sought. When my choices do not yield the results I want, I regard them as bad choices, even if I have made the decision prudently, and with my heart in the right place. The lens of hindsight tints my memory, rosy or gray, with the result that I misremember my story. And, looking back on my failures, I chastize myself for the inability to do the impossible: see the future.

I regard choices not as opportunities to grow, but opportunities to get what I want. And when I don't get what I want, I regard my choosing-ability, and hence, myself, as somehow deficient.

Thought # 9: But this is horrifying, isn't it? Very bleak. Very Ayn-Randy (ecch). Very Pharasaical. ""Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" I see myself as only as good as how much I get what I want.

Thought #10: Perhaps a way to love others radically is to strive to keep our minds large, as the universe is large, in order to see one another's stories, in all their complexity. We are not the sum of our choices. We do not always get what we deserve, or deserve what we get.

Sometimes, we fail so God can sanctify us. Sometimes, trouble does come as a result of bad choices (the Universe contains within it certain laws: don't touch the stove, or you'll get burned. The Bible, while very complicated, contains distillable truth, too -- and we are foolish not to heed it). Sometimes, we fail because who knows why.

God can, and has, taken my sin and fashioned it into something beautiful. And conversely, sometimes when I am living righteously, I am repeatedly thrown against the rocks.

Thought #11: I am tired of my mutinous spirit: putting a pistol to Destiny's head and demanding particular treasures. Perhaps I should try to collaborate more with the Captain.

Okay, I'm done waxing philosophical now (and eating chocolate covered strawberries). Time for yoga with the roommates. A few weeks ago, the yoga teacher went on and on - with a face as inexpressive as a pan of milk - about how Faith is your Lifeguard in the Pool of Life. Now, I wonder if my thoughts and metaphors about, you know, sailing on the sea of life and choosing how you respond to stimuli are as inane and vacuous as that?

When if Someone Pees in the Pool of Life, huh? I wanted to demand. What then? But I chose to stay in child's pose, and, sheltered in the dark cool cave of my own shoulders, to darken an imaginary glass with my hot ujayi breath.

perfume dispensers give me the willies

They just installed an automatic perfume dispenser in the women's bathroom here at my job. I appreciate the dispenser. I really do. Every so often, this dispenser emits a cloud of ambiguous sweet scent... overripe watermelon on a forest floor, maybe, and while I do not care for the scent myself, I appreciate the intention behind it.

I do not, however, appreciate the terrifying sounds this gadget makes.


I was in a stall when I first heard the click. To my ears, this sounded a good deal like someone cocking a gun. Where I work, hearing such a sound is not entirely outside the realm of possibility. So, with racing heart and sagging tights, I leapt on to the toilet seat, and stood there until I was quite sure the danger had passed.

Today, scrubbing my hands at the sink, I told a co-worker about my first encounter with the perfume dispenser. "You should have heard the perfume dispenser at my old job," she replied.

"What did it sound like?"

"A large man sighing."

Horrifying. Perfume-dispenser-makers of America, I ask you: What are you thinking? What on earth?

drudging away at magic

It was necessary for me to gain power in some realm into which my parents -- my mother particularly -- could not follow me. Of course, I did not think about the matter logically; sometimes, I yearned for my mother's love and hated myself for having grieved her, but quite as often I recognized that her love had a high price on it and that her idea of a good son was a pretty small potato. So I druged away secretly at the magic.

Davies, Robertson. Fifth Business. 34.

my radiant, ineffable 13-year olds

"i personally wouldnt have gone 3 days without real food for a giant fish. but i still admire that he tried"

one of my dearies on Old Man and the Sea

everyone's asleep but me

After a fun but crazy game night slash "Welcome, special guest K." party, our dining room table is strewn with napkins, crumbs and junk. Tomorrow morning, I will have to reckon with the mess. Now, all is (finally) quiet in our little house.

I can hear K. breathing and tossing at the foot of my bed. I love her. How absolutely lovely, to have friends with whom one can rest, even after a long separation. I have maybe four of these friends. When you're with them, you don't have to talk; you can just enjoy one another's company. There is no pressure to "catch up" or have a deep conversation. Without straining or striving for understanding, both people experience it. Silence is deep and rich, not squirmy - or awkward.

Heaven knows, I love words. How ironic, then, that the friends I value most are the ones with whom I talk least, the friends with whom I can sit for hours, saying little or nothing.

Michael Phelps: what he eats

From the NY Post. After reading this, I thought, "Heck. I work out. You know what? I'm going to Wendy's." And promptly did. Michael, you inspire me. Read here

Phelps lends a new spin to the phrase "Breakfast of Champions" by starting off his day by eating three fried-egg sandwiches loaded with cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, fried onions and mayonnaise. He follows that up with two cups of coffee, a five-egg omelet, a bowl of grits, three slices of French toast topped with powdered sugar and three chocolate-chip pancakes.

At lunch, Phelps gobbles up a pound of enriched pasta and two large ham and cheese sandwiches slathered with mayo on white bread - capping off the meal by chugging about 1,000 calories worth of energy
drinks.

For dinner, Phelps really loads up on the carbs - what he needs to give him plenty of energy for his five-hours-a-day, six-days-a-week regimen - with a pound of pasta and an entire pizza. He washes all that down with another 1,000 calories worth of energy drinks.

Phelps remains on course to at least equal Mark Spitz's record of seven gold medals won at the 1972 Munich Games.

the "complexity of mankind": wise and gracious words for J. Edwards

I haven't read much of this blog, but this thoughtful post makes me eager to read more:

I also find it difficult to understand why many conservative bloggers can't entertain the possibility that Edwards feels genuine remorse over his conduct. To be sure, Edwards is a phony, and I've made that case in virtually everything I've ever written about him. Had this affair not been revealed, I'd have always remembered Edwards as the man whose phoniness, according to Bob Shrum, offended John Kerry.

But to have lived in the world, and to have understood the complexity of mankind, is to recognize that phoniness is not the same thing as an inability to have genuine feelings. To pretend frequently that one has extraordinary sensibilities is not evidence that one lacks ordinary sensibilities. A person with anything remotely resembling ordinary sensibilities would feel genuine remorse, and indeed shame, over the conduct involved here. Though we can't know whether Edwards possesses such feeling, those who assume he doesn't may be telling us more about themselves than about Edwards.

Piling on public figures after they are brought low by their human frailties is unseemly whatever the political affilation of the offender and whatever the ideological affiliaton of the critic.

Paul Mirengoff

Thanks, D.S. for the link.

failed but honorable gestures

"A certain sartorial intersection of glamour and trash, a louche but lovely address at which reside faux leopard anything, cloches, art deco jewlery, silk scarves worn as head wraps, tiny black dresses worn with a black leather jacket. Lynda looked wonderful, and she loved looking unlike anyone else; she wanted her unlikeness to be seen and appreciated. Her style, as her body fell apart over time, became more and more the sort she admired, a panache which triumphed over difficutly without exactly concealing it; she adored Frida Kahlo, Marianne Faithfull, Lotte Lenya, women made more beautiful by a certain broken quality about them, by the acknowledgment of that quality ... the artifice of making oneself be whomever one liked always revealed the reality beneath, and therein lay both its failure and a good part of its charm. She was a lover of appearances, of performance, of bravura, of failed but honorable gestures toward beauty.

Because the world was ruined, wasn't it, and how could its children not be ruined as well?" (96)

Doty, Mark. Heaven's Coast. New York: HarperCollins, 1987.

opportunities and muscular love

When I am burdened, it helps when people come to me with their own troubles. I am so thankful for the chance to listen to another's life for awhile, instead of just thinking about my own.

What a relief it is to extend love to another person by listening to them. Rain "dropping as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath." Sweet, sweet mercy.

In the last few days, a few people have shared their burdens with me. Each of them has been distraught, unable to work/study, and has apologized profusely for making things a Big Deal. Also, each has ended her heart-rant with, "Whatever." And then apologized more for taking up my time, for dumping her problems, etc. etc.

"No," I say. "Thank you for trusting me."

When we run to God with our burdens, all babbling and weeping, I am sure he weeps with us, too. Yet I wonder if he also smiles a bit - because now, finally, he can show us how much he loves us. Now, he can squeeze us in his muscular love. Now, he can unleash rivers of his mercy to wash away our sins and sorrows.

In the midst of our weaknesses, God shows us who he is. His name is Love. And he also shows us how we are Loved -- powerfully, tenderly, eternally.

space between: modesty, writing and intimacy

Today, I went to lunch with two coworkers, A. and K. Both are beautiful women: one has long, blonde hair. The other has short black curls. We sat on a blanket in the grass, ate our yogurts and sandwiches and talked about our weekends. I mentioned I'd been to a hip hop dance class with two friends, and that my favorite part was watching a lady in a Moslem headscarf break it down. Or, "rock the boat," as my friend Mel said. This particular woman closed her eyes and grinned as she danced. She relished every step … like she had been waiting her whole life to move. Instead of dancing myself, I found myself watching her, so buoyant, yet so burdened in her long-sleeves, long pants and headscarf.

This in turn led to a discussion of Islam and burquas. A. actually studied religion and politics at the University of London. For her graduate thesis project, she had to interview Muslim women. Some of them, she said … not all by any means … actually liked wearing burquas. I began to (hotly) protest, but A. coolly explained. She meant that these women felt they were more free to be themselves with their bodies hidden. When the complications of having a woman's body were removed, they felt they were actually listened to instead of gawked at. And they felt valued and protected … intact … in those caves of cloth.

I don't know what I think about this, I said, splaying my arms wide in the grass. Actually, I do know. Burquas are awful; they put the burden of lust on women. Who would want to walk around swathed in heavy black cloth? I, personally, am glad to be able to walk around in shorts and a t-shirt. Aren't you? I asked A. and K.

Now, reflecting on this conversation later, I think I actually understand that distance - cloth, miles, or time - can be both freeing and intimate. I have experienced this through letter writing. Through receiving carefully-wrought letters, I've gotten to know both men and women really well ... differently than I would have face to face.

Similarly, you can draw closer to the truth of an experience after you've gained distance. Time away from the heat of the moment can help focus our minds. The advantage of hindsight helps us trace the shape of our lives. To understand.

So maybe, oddly enough, I am more with you when you are not with me.

And perhaps, paradoxically, distance helps us to better see each other, and allows us to love or desire the best parts of one another ... not just the obvious ones.

after the opera: thoughts

When you hear love soaring in the effortless form of Italian aria, you begin to believe that your own love can take on that depth, breadth and richness. Art makes life bigger, reinforces our sense of our own uniqueness while connecting us to other lovers and strivers and strugglers and people longing on this Earth.

"year of the locust"

Here is the beginning of an old essay about crying, believe it or not. Doesn't have much to do with crying, does it?

Princeton is perfect in summer. Rows of trees stand tall, branches sheltering pedestrians from the hot Jersey sun. Hedges are clipped, fences neatly divide neighbor from neighbor, and the Doric columns on the porches give the whole place an imperial feel. Every homeowner ruler of his own little kingdom. Every child knows which Ivy League she wants to go to. Every bike is shiny and new. Our neighbors in the pink Victorian once tried to install a window air-conditioning, and within a day, the Historical Society called to inform them that they would need to take it down.

Several forces invade the tranquility of this neighborhood. First, the ghosts. In one house owned by Princeton Seminary, the ghost of an ex-faculty wife rocks back and forth in her chair, weeping and muttering, wild in her grief. Another ghost hides out in the oldest house in Princeton, built in the seventeenth century. This ghost re-arranges the socks. The owner called in a priest to perform an exorcism, but it didn’t work. The ghost continues to have his way with her laundry.

Potholes are another force to be reckoned with. The roots of the trees run deep and break up the pavement. So all the Benzs and Audis pop hubcaps right and left as they drive. Some days, my sisters and I would find three or four in our yard in a single day. Property taxes are high, so the city can afford to re-pave the road often, but it doesn’t do much good. The roots are too unruly, and too deep down to tame.

Perhaps the two most disruptive influences are plagues of creatures. The first, cicadas, who every seventeen years, invade the town in great hordes. Individually, they are beautiful, with their amber carapaces and beady black eyes. Overall, their presence is fairly intense, actually alarming, like an Alfred Hitchcock movie. It is impossible to avoid stepping on them, and together, they hum loudly, a kind of eerie drone, a soundtrack to normal tasks like washing dishes. One never quite get used to it. Bob Dylan happened to be receiving an honorary doctorate from Princeton in a cicada year, and he was so shocked by their omminpresence, that he wrote a song about them. It’s called “Day of the Locust.”

And the locusts sang, well, it give me a chill,

Yeah, the locusts sang such a sweet melody.

And the locusts sang with a high whinin' trill,

Yeah, the locusts sang and they was singing for me . . .

The year of the locusts, my brother, who likes to buy crap off the Internet, made good use of his special-edition Lord of the Rings sword. He slayed his thousands upon thousands up in a tree. I like thinking about him up there, thrashing. “Yeah! Got one!” The boyish grin on his dirty, cherubic face, the bright sun catching his golden curls, and the insect blood and guts spurted everywhere.

The last, and the most disturbing plague, is the influx of deer. Deer are everywhere in Princeton. They chew flowers, they mar the lawns with their mangy rumps. They are skinny, ugly things, desperate for food. They are so weary and faint from hunger that they will walk out in front of cars without a second thought. In the second before you end their skinny lives, they look reproachfully at you with their large fawn eyes through the windshield, as if to say, “Why?”

In January of 2002, a State Superior Court judge blocked Princeton Township's deer-killing program, which included using high-powered rifles with silencers or catching deer with nets and firing bolts into their heads. Officials had hoped to use some 400 deer for food. Animal rights advocates asked for a restraining order on the grounds that these measures were dangerous and cruel.

Ghosts. Tree roots. Cicadas. Deer and their mournful brown eyes. In small ways, these disruptive visitors, thes inconviences reminded us that for all our money and authority, we were not all-powerful. That we could not control our lives. That chaos lurked underneath the semblance of order.

your darling imperfections, your dear particularities

As a child, I enjoyed the story of the velveteen rabbit. I especially loved the part about love's roughness. Do you remember what I'm talking about? As time passed, the child's unbridled affection took a toll on the rabbit. Love dulled the rabbit's fur, rubbed the pink out of his nose, unraveled his threads and unloosed his stuffing. But the child didn't care that his rabbit was dirty and worn. The child's heart clung to the rabbit's imperfections, and loved him all the more for it. And the child's love made the rabbit Real.

I've been thinking about how I love the people who cross my path at work. By necessity, so much of my loving is "sisterly" and "dutiful." By this, I mean that I can have a "heart for the homeless population" in general, but I must remain professional – keep my distance.

I'm in a public role -- I work in Development for a large organization -- so that's fine. But I am sick of trying to represent people in the abstract. So today, while maintaining my distance, I am going to do things a little differently. Today, from my car window, or from across the table, I will look hard for funniness in your walk. I will listen for the quaver in your voice. I will watch for the expression you wear when you think you are alone, and I will use the most specific language I can to describe it. I want to see the damaged and frightened and imperfect and beautiful you. I don't want to just love my idea of you. I want to stop, breathe, and really see you. And then I want to write about that.

you rolling river

Why are the saddest songs always about rivers?

Think about it. "Just remember the Red River Valley, and the one who has loved you so true." Audrey Hepburn cooing on the balcony: "Old dream maker, you heartbreaker." "River" by Joni Mitchell. "Watching the River Flow" by Dylan. Even Gertrude's river song in "Hamlet."

And, of course, "Shenandoah."

Why do rivers provide such rich, loamy song-writing soil? Well, we all know rivers are beautiful. Also, their mossy, shady banks provide an idyllic (pastoral) setting for laughing, loving, and longing. Most of all, rivers' elusiveness adds to their pathos. For rivers cannot be stopped. They rush on and on and on, like time, like our little lives, never pausing for breath or regret.

If you haven't heard the famous jazz pianist Keith Jarrett play Shenandoah on his album "The Melody, At Night With You," please find the album and give it as a listen. As a high school student, my dad introduced me to this song, and I used to listen to it over and over again. Jarrett's arrangement still breaks my heart today. From the very first few notes, one feels that this song's beginning was borne out of a painful "goodbye."

In "Shenandoah," in our relationships, in our days on earth, there is no "hello" without a "goodbye." Anyone who has paid any attention to the Way of Things knows that music and life possess rules and rhythm: Death comes, and Time marches forward. As we grow older, we learn to work and love within this world.

As I listen to Jarrett play piano, I hear and feel that he holds nothing back. He does what he can with the time he's been given, but this power is tempered by his unwillingness to get to the "goodbye." His chords become increasingly fumbled. He is resisting the river's swift and insistent currents. You can even hear his raspy humming, coming from the pit of his stomach, and you think, this man's instrument is an extension of himself. Truly.

But before we know it, the song fades away. The melody, at night, with you is whisked away, and dissolved in the river, just like the minutes of our lives. The piano whispers. The chords slow. I think he's begging for just a moment more.

Hold it dearly when you have it, hold it dearly when you have it. That's the lesson of these mournful river songs.

so much for being an adult

Here is a list of items I left at the Carwells' house in villa park, IL:

my cell phone charger
half the computer cord for my work laptop
running shoes

This morning in my kitchen, I lamented my absentmindedness to Mel, my roommate, who sympathetically said, "Well, that's beyond the point of being frustrating. It's just funny!"

Maybe so, maybe so. There does seem to be a "forgetfulness" gene in our family. My dad called me a year ago to ask me, "What's wrong with you kids?" My sister had left an iron plugged in, face down, on the hardwood floor of our living room. Now, we conceal the dark burn with a house plant.

A few weeks ago in church, I reached into my purse for my Bible, and instead pulled out the DVD remote. I have no idea how it got there.

In the sixth grade, I lost six pairs of shorts in one summer.

I must conclude that my genes have made me this way.

went to chicago. all things go

"life is supposed to be epic"

Life is supposed to be epic. Even just glancing over the Psalms this morning, I see that David lived in a gamut of color and terror, praise and desperation. Three thousand years later, my life questions sometimes echo his.

God. Where are you?
Why is my flesh so confoundedly weak?
Why is this world so heartbreakingly lovely?

writing and translucency

In my acting program, we learned some basic moves on the trapeze. Flying was fun, but as we swung through the air, I wondered "Why are we doing this? Because it looks cool? How does this help our acting? "

One of the more blunt class members voiced this question to our (famous) instructor, who, in characteristic fashion, stared over our heads with parted lips, and smiled as if greeting a ghost.

He then whispered a word through clenched teeth: "Translucency."

Translucency, he went on to explain, is the ability to let go of the "process" behind the work, and to live honestly in the moment. In trapeze work, translucency manifests itself as a graceful weightlessness. Nobody can see the effort behind your leaps, your twirls, the bend in your back. You are transcending your own work.

Obviously, translucency becomes easier with skill and strength, as you gain confidence in your body, your instrument. You can be honest, spontaneous and messy in the moment without strain, over-thinking, self-analysis. Because, really – who wants to see someone thinking about their next move? You want to see the music take over: the dancer is propelled by the cello's tender growl. The lover is driven, not by the list of things she "wants in a man," but by the cracking open of her chest.

Lately, I have been thinking about how the concept of translucency, or rather practice of translucency -- it isn't just an idea, that's the point -- applies to writing. I have been thinking about this because I often edit my writing into oblivion. My voice loses its freshness and immediacy. I kill my own writing by trying too hard.

This isn't unique to me. I used to see this "trying too hard" in others' stories and essays when I worked in the writing center. I would ask the students to tell me about what they wanted to communicate, and they would verbally express clear, engaging ideas. On the paper, however, their thoughts were convoluted. Their effort had obfuscated their work, rather than strengthened it.

So now, I ask myself, where is my work most beautiful and clear? Well, this week, I reread some of my old journals, and I found lyrical, but effortless, writing – in other words, translucent work. And it just sort of comes out like that. Beauty in trying less.

By contrast, whenever I try to write anything longer or more "serious," I stumble and trip. My work becomes thought out instead of felt. So today, I am wondering how to work hard at writing, but eventually move beyond the struggle. I want my sentences to float buoyantly, gently, as if on currents of air, as if I'd only just caught them with a butterfly net.
____

"bubble and spark."

I promised myself I would carve out some space to write today. Now, here it is, nearly midnight, and after driving some actors to/from the grocery store, I am just sitting down to write.

So far, every day at the National Theatre Conservatory has been a lurching, rattletap streetcar ride. Those glorious, golden aha moments punctuate long stretches of confusion. I guess I've entertained wildly ambitious hopes. I shook Paula Vogel's hand. Often, I just want to go home and sleep. I have felt competent, stupid, beautiful, and ridiculous.

Ha, these adjectives aren't very specific, are they? Isn't it funny how, when you are caught up in the thick of a feeling, your writing becomes abstract? Well, at least that's true for me.

I am humbled daily. Right now, in scene study class, I am fed up with my scene and angry at my incompetency, angry at my teacher for not liking my work better. Begrudgingly, I admit that she is right to make the suggestions she does ... but when she told me, flat out, to get out of my head and cease over-intellectualizing, I became hurt and couldn't say yes to anything she asked me to do from there on out. I mean, I went through the motions, but couldn't engage

Underneath my tv/film, Shakespeare, stage combat, voice, movement, music, extended character, hip hop, audition and scene study classes, a few questions bubble and spark. How can I use my fears and uncertainties -- the "shaky place" -- to energize my work, rather than allowing fear to shut me down as an artist? How can I acknowledge this huge part of me honestly without crippling myself from the get-go? And if I am a Christian, why am I so afraid?

Also, for me, to act professionally would require a long, sweaty fight -- am I willing to fight that fight, at the cost of relationships, financial stability, etc. etc.?

Tonight, I'm a bit discouraged by some disappointments I experienced this afternoon, and tired after a long stint of driving. However, for the most part, I am just thankful to have a space in which to engage important questions, to learn by doing. I am thankful to have access to a dance room with the sun streaming in, and cars howling below in the street. I can hop, skip and wonder in it. If you think of me during the next few days, friends, please pray I'll live, move and act with courage, openness and kindness through the acting studios. Pray that I'll be given a soft heart and new courage, and that I can shower the other tired students with love and kindness.

"Pray freely for thyself and pray for all who long for larger life and heavenly cheer;
And Truth shall make thee free, there is no fear."
-Geoffry Chaucer, from Ballade of Good Counsel. Modern version by Henry VanDyke

sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me ...

PHEBE
I would not be thy executioner:

I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye:

'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,

That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,

Who shut their coward gates on atomies,

Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!

Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;

And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:

Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down;

Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,

Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers!

Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:

Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impressure

Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,

Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,

Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes

That can do hurt.

(Painting: Adolphe-William Bouguereau (1825-1905). Excerpt: Shakespeare)

Laura Policeman And The Gothic Soup

that's the newest band name idea -- courtesy Joy. Thank you, Joy.

My new band

I recently heard about a website that creates band names for you (www.bandnamemaker.com). You are asked to enter a "key phrase," and from this phrase, the special Band Name generator proffers several band names for you to chose from.

Hmmm. What word to feed the generator? I thought and I thought. Then it came to me. Wholesome. Perfect. I gleefully typed it in, and awaited the results with baited breath.

And they are in!

"Wholesome Bikini Chief And The Superb Disease."

"Wholesome Bikini Hobo."

"Nameless Naughty."

I like each of these band names very much, so much so that I want to start a band now. Or perhaps a dance team.

Atom. Atom.

TILLIE: He told me to look at my hand, for a part of it came from a star that exploded too long ago to imagine. This part of me was formed from a tongue of fire that screamed through the heavens until there was our sun. And this part of me -- this tiny part of me-- was on the sun when it itself exploded and whirled in a great storm until the planets came to be. And this small part of me was then a whisper of the earth. When there was life, perhaps this part of me got lost in a fern that was crushed and covered until it was coal. And then it was a diamond millions of years later -- it must have been a diamond as beautiful as the star from which it had first come. Or perhaps this part of me became lost in a terrible beast, or became part of a huge bird that flew above the primeval swamps. And he said this thing was so small -- this part of me was so small it couldn't be seen -- but it was there from the beginning of the world. And he called this bit of me an atom. And when he wrote the word, I fell in love with it. Atom. Atom. What a beautiful word."

(from The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds, by Paul Zinfandel.)

(photo from the amazing http://wink.nixone.com/archives/862. I haven't figured out how to link yet).

Did I forget to mention?

Also, running is fun. Especially when you have running partners/roommates like this one.

Running, thinking and the joy of mediocrity

Yesterday, I ran 12k to support 40+ formerly homeless men and women who were also running in the Colfax Marathon here in Denver. I ran the last leg of our relay, so I got to cross the finish line. This felt great. As a bookish person who received her lowest college grade in Badminton, feeling athletic -- experiencing triumph in my muscles -- was very cool and exciting. When I rounded the corner, I saw colorful banners, I heard drums beating, and my heart swelled. I stared at the back of the man who I'd been shadowing the whole race, and decided that I would beat him. So I cranked up Joss Stone, threw my head back, and sprinted as fast as I could.

Here's the thing, though. In my excitement, I mistook something that wasn't the finish line for the finish line. (The line I assumed to be the finish line was actually a blue name-scanner. Announcers read your name from it as you approach the end of the race, and share it with onlookers). So, I stopped after this pseudo-finish line, sweating, panting and very pleased with myself. Woohoo! I flashed a big, charming smile at my friends and the photographers. Except they all started screaming at me to keep running, you idiot.

-----------

Running has really made my life better; I have more energy, and I feel more strong and capable in general. Now, I think I understand why running has proved a very useful tool for our men and women as they struggle to achieve sobriety and self-sufficiency; the benefits of running spill over to all areas of life. First of all, training with a team helps runners to rely on others, and to practice discipine and commitment in community. Second, with every step, runners have to really engage with their own weaknesses, their desire to give up. After physically wrestling, and winning, they feel stronger in mind, body and spirit, and empowered to achieve other goals as well. Third, a long run includes easy patches and rough patches. Expecting and preparing for difficulty might help runners/recovering addicts to prepare for dog-days, when the high inevitably wears off, when practicing sobriety becomes gruelling, depressing and lonely.

As I ran, I ruminated. Really, I thought to myself as sweat poured off my body, as the sun scalded the back of my neck, really I can see why a "journey" or a "race" is such a fitting metaphor for life. Like a good story, a race draws its worth and intrigue from conflict, from pushing (all types of conflict: man v. himself, man v. nature, man v. others (competitors)). Also, in a race, time figures heavily, even tyranically, just as it does for so many characters who wrestle with mortality. And, as I ran, I remarked to myself that the dynamic metaphor of a journey allows authors to project characters' shifting mindsets on the changing landscapes outside.

I thought all of this while I was running. Seriously. As my feet pounded the pavement, I pondered over the metaphors that shape our consciousness. Which is maybe why I neglected to cross the real finish line, which is maybe why I got a B- in college badminton.

----

Looking back at my time at Wheaton College, I see now that as an undergraduate, I believed that you should only study a discipline if you could master it. For example, in theatre, I was profoundly unhappy when I wasn't the star. When I got cast in roles I didn't want, I withdrew. I wasn't able to have fun unless I felt like I was the best. My competitive spirit prevented me from seeing that the discipline of WorkOut (our theatre ensemble) was changing my heart and my mind for the better. A second example is exercise: I never ran with people who were faster than me, because it made me mad.

Similarly, from attending some leadership seminars and observing goings-on in my own workplace, I've noticed that the current trend in management is to capitalize on your employees' strengths, and to ignore their weak spots. (Marcus Buckingham, Tom Rath). I suppose this strategy makes sense from an efficiency standpoint. And helping people become the best that they can be is a very worthy goal.

But isn't it dangerous to limit yourself to activities you feel safe and comepetent doing? And isn't it good to learn how to fail or fall? Yesterday, I didn't care about my mediocre race time, or losing to the man in front of me; I was happy just to have ran 7.4 miles in support of a worthy cause. So now, I am wondering about the soul-benefits of an average performance. I wonder about the joy in being content to merely tinker, to dabble, to have a hobby. For anyone -- a writer, baker or candlestick maker -- a hobby requiring discipline (for example, running) expands your sense of what you can do, and helps you in your real "calling" -- or, if you don't care for this terminology, helps you accomplish what you want to achieve in your vocation of choice. Me, I'll never be an amazing runner. Neither will most of these men and women; after years of malnourishment and breaking down their bodies with drugs and alcohol, they'll never run a 3 hour marathon. But running, even painstakingly, gingerly, or slowly, is worthwhile if it gets people out of their heads, helps them feel stronger, helps them to escape homelessness or addiction, or helps them to have fun. So, hobbies, even ones we're no good at, maybe even especially the ones we're no good at, teach us how to be gracious in mediocrity.

Hobbies also teach us how to fail. In engaging a hobby, we escape the sphere of concrete achievement, and live in a new, expanded space where we are free to tumble, to get scraped up. To make mistakes. Who cares ... it's just a hobby! And in falling, we grow stronger. By contrast, when we are trying to get the lead, to write the best essay, we refuse to fall or fail. We hold on too tightly, too determinedly. For example, sometimes I feel my writing is so measured, so careful, so safe, so ... fearful. What would it feel like to write like I run -- gleefully, and with abandon?

Footnote: I read an essay last night by Joyce Carol Oates on how the benefits of running spill over into her writing life. http://www.nytimes.com/library/books/071999oates-writing.html Listen to this: "Running is a meditation; more practicably it allows me to scroll through, in my mind's eye, the pages I've just written, proofreading for errors and improvements. " What strikes me here is that Ms. Oates isn't really running when she's running, is she? She's writing -- her feet just happen to be moving simulataneously. Always, always thinking about a writing project strikes me as very "artistic" -- the author haunted by her art -- but also nightmarish. No rest. When I run, I think I'd like to run for running's sake, for a little bit of a break from words.

The system is down!

Ha ha ha! I've sidestepped the filter. Where there's a will, there's a way.

(Photo is of WWII spy Virginia Hall by photographer Jeff Bass).

"Someone wonderful"

When A. came to the farm, he was still harried by questions of meaning and purpose. “I felt like I was coming out of a nightmare,” he says softly. “Was I really on the street? Was that me? I had been panhandling for money. This hurts so bad. You know the stinky guys you see in parks? That was me. That was me. That was me. That’s how I was living. So much pain for all the stuff I’ve done in my life.”

Some of A.'s new friends could see that his spirit was every bit as bruised as his body. With this in this mind, they suggested that he get – of all things - a haircut. A new haircut as a remedy for despair? It does sound funny, but these friends reasoned that if A. could look into the mirror and see a fresh, well-groomed person, he might be inspired to pursue sobriety and new life. A. remembers, “They took me to get a haircut, and we took all the hair off. I thought, ‘the old person has to be gone.’

He breaks into a grin.

“I came back out. One woman looking on began to cry. She said, ‘I knew there was someone wonderful under all that.’ ”

Delinquency

I haven't posted for a long time. Why? Because my workplace now blocks "personal websites" with its filter, and my own home computer has kicked the bucket. Well, I think it has. It makes a loud wooshing noise and refuses to perform the simplest tasks. After all, it is a 2003 Dell with virtually no RAM, so I'm grateful it had held out so long.

Now, I'm stealing a few minutes on my roommate's computer before beginning an online book discussion with a group of teenage girls on Jane Eyre. I am excited to begin and to see how the chat medium affects and shapes our conversation. I've never discussed books online before, and I haven't been thirteen for awhile, either, though I remember that time of life very keenly, in the pit of my stomach.

Pigs

Me with pigs on a farm.

Spring has come

My youngest sister, Claire, used to love to "roughhouse" with me. Sometimes, she'd try and biff me in the face, so I'd sit on her. Then she would laugh and laugh, her little stomach quivering with delight. "L-l-laura," she would say.

"Yes, Claire," I'd say, examining my fingernails.

"There's a dinosaur over THERE --" trying to distract me. "I think he's going to eat us."

"Aah -- I don't think so," I would say, not turning my head. "The dinosaurs died out some time ago."


After a time, she'd try again. "Laura," she'd say. "Do you want to go eat ice cream? Girls only outing!"

"Aah -- not in the mood," I'd reply. Then she'd howl with frustration, and struggle to get up. I wouldn't let her.

I remember one time watching her flailing limbs with particular amusement. Suddenly, her eyes lit up, fixated on something hovering over my head. Slowly, she extended her arm. Then her hand. Last her forefinger, which trembled with emotion and conviction. "Laura, oh, Laura -- spring has come!"

Had it really? I turned to face the window. It had been such a long, cold winter. My eyes searched for snow melting, dripping off branches. My ears longed to hear bird's sweet songs. But no. Instead, I saw flurries of white, heard howling wind.

And BAM. Claire wholloped me in the back of the head. I looked from the ground, where I lay. She was hopping up and down impishly, circling me in a victory dance. "Ha ha ha! Gotcha."

She's a good little actress.

Winter wears on me more than I think it does, and I long for spring without knowing it. Lately, it's been getting too hot in my room at night -- I wake up with a parched mouth, hoping that winter's over for good. Last night, with great celebration and ceremony, I opened my windows wide and pulled the wool blankets off my bed.

This morning, I awoke to birds' songs. I rubbed my eyes, and sat up. The sky, tinged with pink, spread itself before me. A breeze waltzed into my room, touched my face, and then left. Outside, below my window, I heard the gravelly voices of construction workers as they joked and jostled.

I suspect -- I hope -- that spring has come. As I say this, I'm looking around nervously, afraid to look out the window, afraid that a winter storm will creep up behind me and clout me in the back of the head.

One self, two self, red self, blue self

I've been trying to write a new blog entry about the interview process. Now I’m realizing that my thoughts are complex, just like the people I talk to. I need more time.

For now, I'll just write about one aspect of interviewing, one that has challenged and intrigued me, namely that formerly homeless people never want to talk about life on the streets. They want to fast-forward to having it together.


I’ll ask someone what being homeless was like, hoping that he’ll share sensory details, specific memories. Instead, he’ll tersely say, "It sucked." In other words: it’s none of your business. At other times, the interviewee confuses herself as she tries to remember: “It was like a dream,” she concludes. And so I have to press further. When I do, people will usually oblige with more specifics. As they share details from their pasts, many people break down. Some lose composure completely, shoulders heaving, cradling their faces in their hands. Most often, people pretend that the tears glistening on their cheeks do not exist. “Something in my eye. One second.”

Of course I do not blame anyone for trying to avoid painful and shameful memories. Who would want to relive waking up on the cold pavement, smelling of alcohol and urine? In telling my own story to others, I too gloss over the parts I want to forget. If somebody asks for more detail, I balk.

Initially, I believed that unwillingness to talk about pain or shame stemmed from the desire to avoid revisiting these experiences. Now, I wonder if reticence with regard to the past has a deeper root than eluding discomfort. Perhaps in our unwillingness to speak of the past, we wish to dissociate ourselves from who we once were. I believe that this effort to discard our old selves for better selves shapes the way we think about our lives, and the way we tell our stories to others.

The power of this impulse -- to become new -- is particularly evident to me when I talk to graduates of our long-term rehabilitiation program.

For example, the last person I interviewed from the long-term program -- let's call him "J.R." --gushed, "You should have seen me before. I had long scraggly, hair. Today, I've put on weight and I have a nice haircut. I'm a new man!" What J.R. most wanted was not merely to escape the discomforts of life on the streets, but to become a new person. The only extant evidence of his old self is a single photograph, he said. Today, this photograph is stashed away in the filing cabinet at a detox center -- somewhere in Nevada.

Here’s another example of someone trying to don a new self. One of my favorite college professors – we’ll call him “M” -- told us that when he was four years old, his parents came home to find that someone had colored all over the wallpaper in bold, broad strokes. “Who did this?” they asked their kids.

“It was him,” the children said, pointing to the young M.

All eyes turned. “Well?” his parents asked.

The young boy hesitated, thought for awhile, and then said: “That was the old M. The new M wouldn’t do that.”

M’s story illustrates our willingness to leave behind old selves when we find ourselves in trouble. Of course, for J.R. the stakes are higher than a spanking. Desperate, alone, and confused, he needed to find - or to be given -- a new self, if he was to beat his addictions and (self-proclaimed) self-hatred. Today, J.R. believes he's found that self. "I'm a new creation," he says, beaming from ear to ear. Then, he goes on about his new, smooth hair, and how every day is a beautiful, new day.

He's happy talking about this, I think. I don't want to ask him to go back to the days on the streets. I can tell he won't want to go back. I wouldn't.

But it's my job to unearth his buried old self. From studying focus groups, I’ve learned that donors respond to need, rather than to solutions. (Apparently, middle-aged women especially respond to older men who look like they need saving.) So, if I’m to write effectively, I’ve got to hunt down this man’s former self – the dirty self who lived under a bridge, who ate one meal a week, who fought with cops and had no hope. I've got to find the self he'd rather forget. In pressing for details, I feel rude and invasive ... I wish I could let him continue to delight in his newfound gladness and his new sense of possibilities ... but I can't.

And so I say, slowly … "Let's back up a little bit … to when you were living in the park.”

Under the bridge

I write under a highway. It's my job. Under I-70, the air is thick with dust and ash. Sometimes, debris falls from above, damaging co-workers' cars. (So far, I've been lucky). Homeless people walk up and down the train tracks, picking at trash, possessions slung over their shoulders in hapless bundles. Today, coming back from lunch, I saw a prostitute (I assume) tumble out of a truck's passenger side. The truck screeched away. She tossed her hair out of her face, got up and began to dance, flailing her arms, swaying her hips, smiling with the maddening secrecy of the Mona Lisa.

"Man, she's loaded," my friend, who was driving, remarked.

I peered closer. Deep purple bruises burgeoned under the dancing lady's eye. When shafts of sunlight caught them, the bruises winked and glimmered in the sunlight.

(When I started my job here, I'd naively assumed prostitutes wore slinky boots and red leather. Not so. Prostitutes -- at least, the ones I see out my window soliciting the truckers -- dress and look like tired mothers at church potlucks. They wear Keds and applique sweaters.)

My job is to write about these people -- the desperate people under the bridge, the needy people all over the city. My job is to tell homeless and low-income people's stories in a compelling way, so that our donors will give us money to help them. Initially, I was ashamed, I think, of writing to raise money, rather than writing to create "art" or "literature." Now, six months into my job, I regret my stupid elitism. I am a very lucky girl. I get paid to drive around the city, to meet people in their homes, to listen to them tell their stories. I see their children's shy smiles. I see gruff fathers' faces crumple into tears. I watch their eyes light up when they make discoveries, as they piece together their own lives.

I get to write not only to reflect the world, but to try to change it, to advocate for people who are desperate. That's a privilege.

So, my job has humbled me, and prompted me to rethink the hierarchy I'd formed in my mind about "types" of writing. In addition, my job has helped me grow in that assignments' guidelines have refined my writing skills. For example, since I have strict word limits, I must choose words more deliberately than ever before. And since each piece is designed for a purpose, I must order words carefully, marshaling them on the page, as if for battle. Sometimes, my audience is a donor base of 100,000+ people, as diverse as it is wide. In these cases, I must try to appeal to basic human instinct. Forget the lacy, complicated, useless theses I so carefully wrought as an undergraduate. Instead, I've learned to write around everyday, "universally appreciable" realities. A gurgling stomach, for example. Shame in asking. Huddling for warmth. Worrying about children. Longing for a home. Wondering, "how did I get here?" Looking to the sky for a sign.

I don't think I'll stay under the bridge forever, though. Yesterday, I took the Strengths.Finder 2.0 online test. My employer paid for each of us to take this. I find my five strengths hilarious: Input, Intellection, Learning, Ideation and Context. Read here: I'm a huge, awkward nerd. According to this test, I love to learn, to observe, to absorb information and sensory data, and to engage other people in conversation. ("You should stop thinking ... you'd feel better," a coworker said to me today). Sometimes, the solitary act of writing burdens me. I want to see my readers' faces, want to argue ideas aloud, to make a fuss and some noise. Perhaps, someday, these "strengths" will lead me back to university, to teach writing or acting. In the meantime, I am content to listen to people who've struggled mightily, and to try to honor them with words. On this particular afternoon, here in the cool darkness of my office, I hope that my writing will help Denver to see and consider people who might have otherwise remained invisible. (As I hope for this, crazies pound on the window, drunk people stagger through the parking lot, and passing trucks make the earth shake and rumble).