Dark and Stormy

It was a dark and stormy night...  Actually, it is a dark and stormy night.  Really. No Edgar Allen Poe or ghost story here.  "Dark and stormy" have been on my mind on a metaphorical level as well.

It all started with teaching Chapter 8 in Luci Shaw's book on journaling titled: "Dealing with Your Difficulties."  It was a hard chapter to read but helpful.  Several of the class members said it was the most useful part of the book.  She writes about being honest with yourself about your emotions-- to pray and write about them before you do something you'll regret.  We discussed how hard life is.  I used to think it was personal, but I'm getting the sense that everybody gets their share of heartache.  It comes in so many forms.  But, it's so hard to walk through it instead of avoiding it.  There's a necessary degree of survival mode to dark times because some days getting to evening can feel like a miracle.

However, millenia of Judeo-Christian tradition tell us that there's more to darkness and suffering than survival.  Say, the Book of Job and Lamentations to go for the obvious.  The passion in all four gospels.  One third of the Psalms are lament.  A third.  And, according to multiple theologians the Psalms are the anatomy of the soul.  Our souls are one-third lament?  Here's the poem I put at the end of the hand out for the class:

“To Know the Dark” by Wendell Berry

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.

To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,

And find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,

And is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

Then after teaching the class, I had a couple of potent conversations with several friends over a course of a few days.  My friends our dealing with some heavy stuff-- some painful difficulties.  I woke up at 4:20 on Saturday morning with Isaiah 50:10-11 on my mind (who knows what I was dreaming?):

Who among you fears the Lord
    and obeys the voice of his servant?
Let him who walks in darkness
    and has no light
trust in the name of the Lord
    and rely on his God.
¹¹ Behold, all you who kindle a fire,
    who equip yourselves with burning torches!
Walk by the light of your fire,
    and by the torches that you have kindled!
This you have from my hand:
    you shall lie down in torment.

There's a large part of me that wishes that there was something more than "trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God" that God offers "him who walks in darkness and has no light." But, that's the gospel: our only hope is God.  There is no "more than." The Bible is no self-help manual.  

Back to the Psalms. Although a third of the Psalter is lament, all but one Psalm ends in praise.  Psalm 88 ends with "Darkness is my only friend."  But, every other one, even the most dire ones like the one where babies heads are getting bashed on rocks, end in praise and hope.  This literary structure is instructive: it really shifts momentum from the situation to God without dismissing the problem.  David got into plenty of pickles-- some really impossible ones.  But, he ended up finding comfort in the goodness and power of his God... who is our God. Darkness can be our friend if it brings us closer to God by ridding of our illusions of power and control.  Or as Flannery O'Connor who died of lupus at age 39 said, "We are all rather blessed in our deprivations if we let ourselves be, I suppose." 

interlude on my writing

"I thought you were going to be chatty," the guy admitted, "But, it's okay."

I responded, "I don't really know you."

"But, I thought you were going to talk nonstop from your emails," his accusation continued.

"Well, I was answering specific questions when I wrote," I said.  

I couldn't go into the fact a lot of my verbal energy was tied up processing information about him... and my enthusiasm was waning with each input of information.  I was calculating his voice too high, his word choice juvenile, his vagueness circumspect, and his subject matter vapid.

He then complained that I wasn't laughing at his jokes.  

I was thinking: "Those were jokes?"

I'm relieved to report that I haven't heard from him since.  This was one of my best, most productive, most encouraging exchanges of all time.  This dude made me feel like a writer.  This isn't to dodge his bullet: I am inept on the phone.  But, I think no more than normal.  The unfunny dude was telling me that he really liked my writing.

It's a win-win.  I got encouragement and time to act on it!

job hunt, phase 2

I found a job: full time with benefits.  It even required a college degree. It was frightfully easy and the entire process took less than two weeks.  It feels surreal in a way.  I have no clue why this company and job didn't occur to me before now.  But, it didn't.  I think I may even enjoy it.  At least the first year or so.

I start training Monday at 8a.m.  When I finish training, I'll work Friday-Monday 10am-9pm.  That means I'll have Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.

I'm also going to teach a class on (spiritual) journal writing at my church, starting in late October.  I'll have an outlet for teaching.  Things are coming together.  Thanks be to God.

BEWARE of DOG

Ferocious DOG who refuses to bark


I love the sign: "Beware of DOG". It is awesome because it is missing "the". Sasha gets a promotion: he isn't "a dog" or "the dog". He is DOG. With this designation, he deserves his own comic book series and cape. DOG to the rescue. He is the platonic ideal of a dog: DOG. It's a lot to live up to, but Sasha just wags his fluffy tail.

Then again, maybe the pressure is why he spends so much of his day in repose on his comfy bed. Maybe it is why he conserves his barks. One never knows when he'll be called on to BARK because that is what DOG does.

Then there is the other side of the sign, who designed it? Did he graduate from Fortune Cookie Fortune School where he mastered the art of vaguely awkward syntax? BEWARE of DOG. Was he maximizing the space? Was it a joke or meant to be menacing?

(I'm going to try to make this blog more about the writing and less of a teenage diary. I did say try. See, this was an attempt at comedic writing. Read it again and see if it worked.)

My audience

When I write my blog, it's with several friends in mind. People who either started the idea or I'd chat about it over dinner except that they live thousands of miles away from me-- or are busy with two kids and a job-- or with a farm and a parish. And it's for friends. My brother and sister passionately refuse to read it and finding it eludes my mom.

I've been entirely too much time on Facebook the past couple of weeks collecting friends from high school and Regent. I went to school with amazing people. People who were on the team that designed the Chevy Volt, live in Niger, write and publish books, make movies and music, live in Haiti, compete in Iron mans, design their clothes, start their own businesses, get a PhD and move to HK. At points I feel like asking "who doesn't belong?" would be a rhetorical question. It makes me think of that iconic Groucho Marx quotation: I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members.

Here's a picture of the friend that probably pops the most to my mind as I write. If you're thinking, is she being funny? Then, chances are this friend is laughing. She also prompts a lot of my thinking-- giving me ideas I have to live with a long time. I always have somebody in mind when I write whether it's a TDL (me), lesson plans (students), journal (God). I keep writing at the process level, I rarely bother to reach towards the product level, which is a failing. I read a friend's blogHaiti's Jesus today that made me stop and pray. There's no comparison between his product and mine. I should have decency to shut this chop shop down. But, no. Chop, chop. I have friends to read and improve upon my garble.

A Day of Sloth

My brother makes fun of me for being completely predictable and for good reason. I read Christ Plays in 10,000 Places, wrote, and ran today. I played on FaceBook-- there's a lot of stuff I couldn't do from my BlackBerry (that's my excuse). I did the map of all the cities I've been to, which was fun. It was a good review of 2010-- well, at least the summer. I had so much fun on the Galapagos, especially Isabella.

This holiday season has made me realize that I need to seek out my friends more. Why do I let it be so long between calls for people I adore? I've had great conversations over food and the phone with people that make me happy. There's a warm afterglow to a conversation with a friend that makes even washing dishes more pleasant. And, no doubt topics of the conversations will plop out into my writing and other conversations. So, I invited a friend to dinner who accepted then canceled; therefore, I was forced to eat a lot of cookies and drink milk for dinner! I was going to try to make grilled cheese sandwiches with brie but settled for chocolate chip cookies.

Scurrying at the back of my mind are my goals for 2011. Some are obvious: find a job for September, run a race a month (do I train for a marathon or ultra?), read, blog. Of course even the obvious goals need specifications. Then, there's the question how do you make spiritual goals? I can prioritize quiet time, reading Scripture, etc. It's like planning to fall in love but a surer bet. Maybe even cooking and not watching TV count towards spiritual awakening. Perhaps, word choice counts too. I should be more cognizant of the weightiness of words. And Eugene Peterson writes about hurry and procrastination being bad too-- they distort the sacredness of time. Perhaps, I should redirect my gaze from my navel to God. I need to go on a God-hunt every day figure out where he met me in my day-- isn't that what Marva Dawn refers to it as?

I actually tried doing some work, but my computer wouldn't open the CD. It must be because I haven't gotten Microsoft Office yet. So, I settled on cleaning out my inbox for 30 minutes... and I put a 10% dent into it. Yikes.

And, I've decided I'm going to write a book this year-- 300 pages 12 font double-spaced. How's that for specificity? I have ideas for 17 chapters. I've already outlined two. Boo yah.

Perhaps I should make it a goal that my posts have a point?

fun with fritattas

I have never made a fritatta, and I'm not sure I've eaten one. But, I got curious because I heard about them, and they seem like an easy quiche. And, I thought the word sounded Spanish. I was wrong: it's Italian for omelette. However, I think I want to make a spinach and mushroom one after I finish up my casseroles.

I had my brother over for dinner. He was an easy guest. Of course, I wasn't at my apartment when he got there. I was on a a beer walk (he once noted, "J, I'm not gay. I don't drink red wine or hot tea.") So, things didn't run smoothly, but that's part of the fun. Hospitality feels a lot like teaching in that respect. He said he liked the salmon casserole better than the Mexican one when he was prepared to enjoy the Mexican. I like how easy going he is-- I had chips and salsa out on the table then served yeast rolls. He didn't blink an eye. Then, "for entertainment", we went on a walk and swung on the elementary school swings and talked about life and jobs. I had a great time. Of course, he's had years of practice with my antics.

So, I borrowed "Love Walked In" by Marisa De Los Santos from the library because my sister said she could see me writing some of the sentences in it. That piqued my interest: what kind of sentences would I write? It looks like chit lit (bad); it's a NYT bestseller (less bad).

I've finished my homework for my Bible study, but haven't done the writing assigment for my Spanish class. I'm supposed to write a single's want ad peppered with reflexive verbs. If I do it, I'll just write random sentences with "me gusta" and "nos preocupa", etc. I get she's trying to do "authentic writing" exercises, but that kind of writing is the antithesis of authentic for me.

I didn't run today. I grade Rikki-tikki-tavi tests instead.

what do it matter?

Work was rough, r-u-f-f, today. I considered screaming (and probably did raise my voice) during some more ridiculous meetings. And, the seventh graders were being, well, seventh graders. I commanded, "Get back to your seat!" And the response was, "But, I was only a couple of steps away from it." (It's in line with my favorite: "I wasn't talking-- I was asking a question!") And, I put grades into the system for over an hour. Why am I teacher?

But, several of my boys got really into Anne McCaffrey's "Smallest Dragonboy" as did I. It's a really good story and it's part of a trilogy. So, two of them went to the library to get copies. That's rewarding.

And, I had a lovely run. It was about 3.5 miles and on the slowish side. But, very relaxing and the temperature was not too hot and not too cold.

Plus, I got my first tangible reward (besides comments) from this stinking blog. A book... how apropos. The publishers sent me "What Do It Matter?" by the guys who wrote "Same Kind of Different As Me". I'm looking forward to reading it after my weird little sci-fi.

I still haven't written my article for my class tomorrow. And, I don't want to, and I'm tempted to drop out of the class. But, I spent over one hundred dollars on it. So, I might as well go even if I don't have my homework. It's supposed to be fun not to stress me out. And, Career Day's the following day and I need to prep for myself and two other guys plus look nice.

I still haven't applied to any new jobs. It's hard not having internet access on my personal computer. (I'm at the library now.) And, reading the article in the Atlantic about the job landscape wasn't exactly encouraging. And, is teaching even a good fit? Or, will I find any job incredibly stressful being a stressball and all?

Writing all this down puts into rather harsh (and hilarious) perspective. Ah, running and writing and reading-- God's gifts to my curmudgeonly (sp?) soul. Lent isn't feeling overly spiritual, but I am praying more. And, I'm realizing what a stress eater I am. Yowsers, a couple of times this week, I'd gladly demolished a coke and a candy bar and had to settle for raw almonds or a cup of pineapple.

CD Review: Mat Kearney's City of Black and White

(This was my first assignment for my freelance journalism class.)

My sister Susan is on top of all things new in pop culture because she has to be. It’s her passion… and job. Especially when it comes to music. In the music, nee the coolness department, I used to be an embarrassment to her; then as we matured, I progressed from a project to a challenge, and am now an opportunity. According to her, the work involved in making me cool is the equivalent to a second job. And, for the most part, I’m a willing recipient of her efforts in my coolness makeover.

For the most part… But, even little sisters need some self-respect. So, I resisted her recommendation of Mat Kearney based on the song “Nothing Left to Lose”. I turned the station whenever that song played because of its annoying chorus that reminded me of a preschool rhyme in how it extended the end of each line with an “ee-ee-ee”, demonstrating a serious error in judgment and taste.

However being the wily, persistent marketer she is, Susan slipped a Mat Kearney song onto a mix she sent me. Susan, aware of a) my strong aversion to Mat Kearney’s apparent lameness and b) my weakness for poetic lyrics, chose the perfect song. “What’s A Boy to Do” hooked me with the lines “Guess I’m looking for the right way to do this/ Guess I’m looking for the right things to call pretty” that got lodged in my psyche. It’s as if Mat and I became friends over a cup of coffee and great conversation. My sister is good at what she does.

But, it wasn’t until I bought “City of Black and White” that I became an official Mat Kearney fan. If that yellow CD had been fabric, it would be threadbare. Kearney is also good at what he does. He provided excellent thought-provoking company for my work commute for several months. He has intelligent, introspective lyrics that escape self-absorption. His gaze reaches above the rim of his belly button without coasting down the vapid road to pop.

He extracts the essence of the human condition from the mundane, foregoing sentimentality in order to reach something greater: compassion and connection. For example in “Closer to Love”, he sings, “She got the call today, one out of the grey/ And when the smoke cleared, it took her breath away/she said she didn’t believe, it could happen to me/ I guess we’re all one phone call from our knees/…. And don’t apologize for all the tears you’ve cried/you’ve been way too strong now for all your life….”

Then, with the chorus in “Lifeline”, he redeems the “ee-ee-ee” fiasco with these lyrics: “The world is too big never to ask why/ The answers don’t just fall from the sky/I’m fighting to live and feel alive….” Instead of wallowing with the emo kids in perpetual angst, Kearney wrestles with the black and white in order to grasp hope and meaning. He’s looking for the right thing to call pretty and invites us to join him.

classy

So, I'm going to my Freelance Journalism class tonight. I'm excited and tired. What kind of people sign up for this kind of class... besides me, of course? And, is it going to rock my world and alter my path OR is it going to be a waste of money and time? Sometimes, you just have tiptoe out on the limb. No hands, no hands.

And, I'm getting excited about this job I know nothing about in a Harlem magnet school. I'm perfecting my personal statement so everybody's going to die wanting me. I can already hear the Academic Deans panting and I'm not even to my rough draft.

Speaking of, my classes are going really well this week. I'm slowing things down-- adding five minutes more than instinct tells me. And, the kids seem more motivated. It's counterintuitive. Plus, I started a reading log with lots of columns (I'm going to institute graph paper next and let them make bar graphs of their pages and hours read. They're going to love it!)

I bought opera tickets on a whim Monday for Saturday as one is want to do. Yea, now they're forecasting for snow. Yikes. La Boheme. La Natural Disaster.

I need to study for my Praxis tests.

worry

On my way home from school I read Spencer Mountain Baptist Church's marquis. This week it exclaims "Worry is the misuse of imagination." Most of the time these bumper-sticker worthy slogans make me smirk or grimace. This one, however, got me thinking. I'd like to take it a step further: Worry is the abuse of imagination. Worry is a distortion of an amazing gift. Imagination is a manifestation of our humaness, our imago dei. Imagination provides so much delight and fun. Our capacity for language, story and abstraction are mirrored in no other facet of the natural world. Creativity is God's image on us in the same manner Caesar's was on the coin the Pharisee handed Jesus. We are God's.

Yet, I worry. Autonomy sucks joy out of life. It's as CSL says that God doesn't worry about our desires being too big but rather that they are too small. We're content with drink, sex and ambition in lieu of unending joy. Heck, I'd take CSL down a notch: I settle for a sense of security.

Tonight at small group we discussed more shattered dreams. But, what stood out to me was relinquishing control and diving into faith is a quotidian act. It sounds so sexy like quitting my job and moving to El Salvador, but it's probably a lot more like staying in my job, learning how to bite my tongue, and writing just because I enjoy it.

I've also realized that I enjoy planning and teaching Social Studies more than I do Language Arts. I was chatting with the Chief about this and pointed out the problem with Language Arts. It covers everything. She said she used to answer the question: "What do you teach?" with "Life." As somebody who finds laundry overwhelming, you can see why I might find "everything" daunting. This is good to figure out. Plus, I equate over analysis of poetry with vivisection. I know 7th grade and the rural school aren't the best fits for me, but I have no clue how or where to go next. No need to worry, right?

notes

I need to write several notes that I've been avoiding. I need to write thank you notes for presents that were insults. My mother and sister suggested effusive thanks as the solution for this connundrum. This is my brain storm: "That is the nicest p.o.s. I have ever seen! I have no idea how I ever lived without it until this point! Thank you for rectifying that egregious wrong! I am so lucky to have a friend like you! Forever grateful, XOXO" Wow, how southern would that be? Awesome. Bless their hearts.

On a more sober note, a friend's parent committed suicide last week. I wrote her a brief note when I received her message, but I know something more substantive is necessary. She's getting married in the spring, and she's an awesome, uber-talented, super-bright human being. The kind of person that I swing between being jealous and in awe she's friends with me. I guess, I should write a letter of friendship and respect. We, humans, are such a hurting and hurtful bunch. Is there a poem that would suit the situation? There's always Auden's "Funeral Blues". Maybe, a Emily Dickinson-- it'd be cool and kind of a joke too. (If you'd gone to my high school-- you'd be laughing right now.) Would it be incredibly gauche to send her a paint by number picture to do? Maybe Van Gogh's Sunflowers or something? It would be something kind of fun... or am I completely off the mark?

And, I need to write a letter of apology. Hopefully, I'll get to say it in person, but it'll be cathartic to write it out, and will help to deliver the message. I'm already losing my nerve. I need to plan if it goes well... or poorly. I don't want to show emotion. I want to be my most rational. We shall see.

Ah, I'd be content (for at least a day) if I were able to communicate my thoughts and feelings accurately to my friends. No, not the great American novel, but a well-written, well-intentioned note. Perhaps, I should forego the sarcasm on the thank yous.

lil ole epiphanies

Today brimmed with little epiphanies that had plenty of foreshadowing. The positive about being a dullard is, that contrary to the term, things are rarely dull. I am one of the most easily entertained people on the planet. I wonder if any employers consider that a skill. I have a proclivity for stating the obvious with relish, which amuses my family-- and has been archived in our oral history. Somehow, I find the obvious quite invigorating. You just never know. Anything can be improved with a bit of wit, emphasis on bit.

For instance, I figured out why I enjoy Flannery O'Connor so much: she agrees with me. I share her world-view and core presumptions about life. As I read Mystery and Manners, I understood some deep-seated notions that I've thought and felt without ever bothering to verbalize. It's good to have somebody explain my ideas to me. You know, clarifying and refreshing like Noxema.

My goal for my writing group for the week is: be positive. I chose it for the sheer originality. And, yes, as a matter of fact we are a progressive writing group who deals with the whole writer. Nobody wants to read doomsday prophecies coupled with litanies of self-pity (imagine their spawn). Nobody. So, my goal is to imitate my friend Marcia's focus: God is good. No tears over spilled milk. focus on the things that I can do. Platitudes help attitudes!

october 7, 1999

I was into dialectic long before I matriculated at Regent. You see, I was a pretentious student of Classics with a minor in Creative Writing and a Division I athlete. I was the only varsity athlete in my department in at least fifty years. In fact, I had more than one prof suggest I couldn't handle being an athlete and studying classics. According to him, the soft sciences were a better fit for an athlete-- he said I should switch majors to sociology, psychology or communications if I continued my athletic career. He suggested that I remain a Classics major and train for a marathon, a club sport or anything less time consuming and exhausting than a team. Classics was a rigorous major plus I had to work out at least 30 hours a week training. This situation explains a) my lack of social life and b) creative writing was a wonderful much needed outlet for me and c) proof I've always taken myself a little too seriously. I loved Classics and rowing-- and I loved the idea of being a classics major and wearing my Nike-issued gear too. But, dude, did I ever enjoy writing... and sleeping. My sister would invite me over for dinner. She'd instruct me to take a nap while she cooked; I was always a wee bit ornery from over exertion.

I've always inhabited liminal space: whether it's being a scholarship kid at a boarding school or a varsity athlete in a plato seminar or a well-read poor person. It's good but hard. Friends, running, reading and writing are my sanctuaries from the necessary awkwardness. And knowing, according to my faith, this isn't my home. I'm never figured out my identity-- I was feel and felt it in contrast.

This is an extremely long introduction to a single sentence from my favorite short story I wrote in college and turned in on October 7th of my junior year. I titled the story, "Sappho's Hypothesis"-- pretentious. But, it was all these snippets of women's lives and their passion. I fashioned it on this french novel I'd just read and fragment 16 of Sappho. Anyway, the snippets were a 8 year-old with her bike, a college student with a pair of jeans, a mother with an infant, etc then I stuck in this death scene. Yea. Awkward. But, it was one of the best scenes, and here's the long awaited sentence: "She spent three weeks in a twin bed with white cotton sheets in which she hadn't had a single dream."

I've decided to rework "Sappho's Hypothesis". I still love that sentence-- I could write a short story and use it as the starting point. Most of the stuff I wrote (in college or last week) makes me cringe. But, this sentence is equal to the three or so photos I have of myself where I look really good. There are thousands of unflattering sentences and pictures out there, and there are the occasional ones that work. Here's to persistence, grace and hope.

Why I don't write poetry:

Communion Wine

Among rows of baby grapes,
In an old white farm house
We relax at the kitchen table.

It's a hot one o'clock:
We pet the spoiled dog
And enjoy cold lemonade.

Between sips, we discover
Winemakers are farmers,
And farmers are philosophers.