It rained all day today, and that is a rare moment in southern California. To celebrate, I posted an old poem I wrote in college on my Facebook page. I thought I’d post it here as well, just for fun. Enjoy!200236712-001

On Rain and Torn-Down Houses

I miss the sound the rain made at my house
when I would sneak out to the porch at night
on tiptoe, quiet, so as not to rouse

my mother, who could stop me in mid-flight
from watching as the sleepy world got wet.
The vinyl awning kept me dry in spite

of Angel, dripping, begging me to pet
her slick black fur and licking at my knees
all goose-bumped in the hurried wind that let

my unclipped hair swirl tangled in the breeze.
I miss the mist that held onto my skin
and how the rustling leaves fell from their trees

and dropped like unwrapped gifts from distant kin
to lie forlorn and dying at my feet
before the wind would whip them up again.

I sometimes wander down that lonely street
and wonder if the rain still falls as sweet.

Below is the link to the first part of “Call of the Artist: a recovering of image in the Church,” a piece I wrote about 18 months ago exploring the connection between the human body and art in the Church. (I never posted it because it includes a story involving another Fuller student, who has since graduated and moved away.) You can find excerpts from the second part through the “theology pop culture and emerging church” category at the bottom of the page, or follow the links at the end of this post. I am posting this first part in its entirety (sans footnotes), so for the sake of space, you can access the majority of the piece through the link below.

Here’s the opening paragraph as a teaser:

My body betrays me. It attracts attention I don’t want. It fails to attract attention I do want. It crumples into a weepy heap when I get angry or frustrated or tired. It breaks down entirely on occasions when it has a responsibility to get me to work on time. It reminds me of my ability to procreate at the most inconvenient time of the month. It sweats and farts—so very unladylike. Most of all, it ties me—the real me, the me inside, that spiritual, ethereal self—to an existence that often wearies me beyond expression. It, this body I am reduced to, is not on my side.


Part 1: Body Theology

Read the rest of this entry »

Ash Wednesday

April 26, 2009

Another little piece from my writing lab…

(desert pictures are copyrighted!!)

desert landscape

There is something haunting about the barrenness of the desert. The dry, cracked earth produces little more plant life than bristles, thistles, and thorns. I am sitting on the hillside overlooking St. Andrew’s Abbey in Valyermo, California. The cemetery rests behind me, just up the winding dirt path. The sun is unmerciful, but I shiver, defenseless against the wind. It is Ash Wednesday. I have never been to a monastery before. I envy this rhythm of life so firmly established here, so deeply rooted in history, tradition, and meaning. I envy the unrushed movement of the brothers as they go about their daily tasks with studied patience. Mostly, I envy the cultivated attitude of reverence toward solitude and stillness. Ash Wednesday, the first day of the Lenten season, is marked by fasting, prayer, and quiet. I have hiked up this hill, away from the monks and visitors, in order to break the silence with my sad song.

desertMy experience at the monastery is nothing like I had expected. I’ve never been in the desert before. I’ve never really been able to understand the draw of barrenness and wasteland on the human soul. I find rest and restoration for my thirsty soul in the calming presence of green and growing things, in the canopies of the Appalachian mountains, in the cool shade and roar of the misty waterfalls. Retreat for me is seclusion in the deep forest, crunching leaves and underbrush under my feet or drinking hot tea under a warm blanket at the picture window overlooking an undisturbed lake. But the desert? I never understood how one could draw peace and strength from a place where nothing grows, where it is at once hot and cold, where desolation and isolation reign. I never understood until this moment, perched on a bolder with my hair wild and lashing my face, watching a hawk in flight. I see him take off, flapping wildly in his ascent, struggling in the wind. Suddenly, the fight is over; the hawk catches a thermal and glides, free and calm, coasting on the breeze that carries him along the way. I’ve never actually seen a hawk fly over the desert before. There is no peace like that moment when the wind takes over and the wings can rest on the journey. I see myself in this moment, resting mid-flight and trusting that the wind will hold me up. I never expected to see myself here in the desert. I stop singing. Suddenly, silence is everything.

***** ***** *****

Lent is the season of repentance, the space between Christmas and Easter when one’s spirituality is devoted to sin, darkness, and death in preparation for the joy, blessing, and life that come with the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus. I never liked Lent or paid much special attention to it as part of the church calendar. But this year, the year that marks a quarter-century in my life, Lent has taken on an unexpectedly profound significance. Being a graduate without any sense of definition for my occupational future has thrown me rather roughly into a deep, unstable darkness. My identity is wrapped in a shroud of uncertainty. My right-brained creativity should be my salvation, but it has only fed into the anxiety of left-handed living. Lent reminds me just how weak I am.

I am an anxious person. When I don’t understand, or when I feel out of control, my anxiety overwhelms me and destroys any chance I have at the rest I have been called into in this season of life. I am most anxious when I lack the words to express myself or define the world around me. This season of waiting, this moment of rest on the journey, has produced an intense experience of rootlessness. I have been like the hawk-flying2hawk, flapping anxiously upward, desperate for the invisible breeze and unable to find it—until that moment on Ash Wednesday when I see the hawk rest on the very wind that had caused him to struggle in flight. In that moment I realized what the Abbey brothers have always known: silence is the sister of waiting. I have been trying, and failing, to describe this place I live in these days, this holding cell between my past and future life, between who I have been and who I am becoming. I have been failing because it is an impossible task, like the hawk fighting the wind. The time has come for silence. The time has come for acceptance of this weakness, this waiting. Words fail and anxiety immobilizes; rigor mortis sets in. I do not move on, not because I will not but because I cannot. I wait because I can do nothing else, but in the waiting—I am learning—I must be silent, as silent as the grave.

Mary & Martha

March 11, 2009

Here’s a little bit of the piece I’m working on currently for my writing lab.

Vermeer Christ in the House of Mary and MarthaI love the story in the book of Luke where Jesus comes to stay with Mary and Martha. Lazarus is there, I always imagine, sitting near his friend and playing the host while his sisters ready the guest room and prepare the evening meal. I often wonder what he thought when his sister Mary put down her laundry basket, entered the room quietly, and sat at Jesus’ feet. But Luke allows us a glimpse only into Martha’s inner world as she breaks into the conversation in a fit of frustration and demands from Jesus what she feels she deserves: “Tell my sister to help me!” She was only asking for what she felt was right. She was only requiring of others what she was also willing to sacrifice. I always identified with Martha, the oldest child, the helper who finds her worth in performing, in conforming. Martha was a doer, and so am I. Now that I think about it, I bet Martha was right-handed.

There are days when I set out to complete a task, to fulfill an obligation, to meet someone else’s expectations that I feel every bit of my left-handedness weighing me down, holding me back. Being left-handed is my weakness, my inability to fit the round peg that I am into the square hole of the world. Or maybe I’m the square, and my corners are too sharp and awkward to slide across the smoothness of the world’s curve. Lefties are the gangly, uncoordinated adolescents that society passes over when choosing teams in kickball. Lefties are the benchwarmers, the underdogs—but doesn’t everyone love to see the underdogs win? Isn’t it in the very nature of the right-brained person to turn her weakness into some undiscovered strength?

That’s what I am learning, as I sit in the waning afternoon sunlight, watchingsoy candle my soy candle burn into dusk. I’m learning to embrace my sharp corners with my uncoordinated limbs and wait, and wait and wait. I have tried to be Martha too long, the active, capable, do-everything-er who always plays by the rules and never once steps out of place. Now I wonder if Mary isn’t a more likeminded role model. Did Mary like washing dishes, I wonder. Was she as careful at folding the laundry or sweeping the steps as her sister expected? Maybe she wasn’t that good at housework. Maybe Mary’s sharp corners grated on Martha’s round world. How long did Mary wait for the right moment to enter that room, when her brother was sufficiently enraptured in Jesus’ voice and her sister engaged with the servants? Did her heart beat and her palms sweat with anticipation? Did she know, when Martha barged into the room, what Jesus’ response would be?

I think she did. I am learning to wait in the darkness with just that anticipation, with only my candle for light. I am learning to sit as Mary once did, at the feet of Jesus. When Martha complains in front of Lazarus and their guests, Mary never even flinches. It is Jesus who rises to her defense; suddenly, Mary’s inadequacy as a be-er in a doer’s world—suddenly her apparent failure—is transformed into the “better part.” Suddenly, Mary’s weakness becomes her strength.