Have you no prayer for me?
Simon you saved from the sifting, but have you no prayer for me?
Why didn't you hint to me to turn back?
Was it because you knew I listened more closely when I was eavesdropping?
Did you love me at all, or am I Esau's twin?
Did you resent my sweat, my wet-dreams, my greed while you savored their vanity?
Why was the only kiss you ever gave me stolen?
Did you leave me hung out to dry to test your mother?
Were you hoping to find her capable of loving the traitor?
If that's the case, she failed.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
RUN
Two sheets of Paper Blowing in the Wind
One fine and heavy
One poor and thin
One bearing happy tidings of a little death
One croaking "Stork the king," may his reign be blessed.
I woke from Revelation screaming in my sleep
Come Lord Jesus Come to Me
And Cast the LOT to End All Wars
One fine and heavy
One poor and thin
One bearing happy tidings of a little death
One croaking "Stork the king," may his reign be blessed.
I woke from Revelation screaming in my sleep
Come Lord Jesus Come to Me
And Cast the LOT to End All Wars
G Notes for Y
G I'm glad God gave you to me
Y Because you taught me how to swear properly
(Just between us, best-beloved, they are taking turns wearing my slippers and playing chess.)
Y Because you taught me how to swear properly
(Just between us, best-beloved, they are taking turns wearing my slippers and playing chess.)
Sunday, April 23, 2006
For My Friend Frebby
I got to thinking about you, my theoretical audience, and I wondered what kind of effect all this discussion of names might have on that poor, sweet, urban legend, Shi Thead. What if your mother had the amazing courage to name you something as bizarre and beautiful as "Vagina" or "Fuck"? All my fuss over God's gift of your name might make you suicidal or deepen your resentment that your mother was suicidal when the form came around. What is there to say to you?
Don't despair. Don't throw away what you are half-examined. Don't let the positive associations you've dared to dream up languish in a bottom drawer. We all promise to keep breathing while you dazzle us with the amazing products of your shit. Let it all hang out. The world's in need of a grand burlesque.
Even the name "Hitler" has its gifts. What would the last century be without that great villain to provide this century with a vocabulary for the creeping evil that we are fighting in every church, synagogue, temple, university and public bar. If you bear that name and its dark gifts turn it inside out for us and show us the sunny side. Because if you are wearing it, it has somehow been repurposed like Mary's name. Mary, the greatest saint, the icon of submission--her name means "rebellion." Can you imagine "rebellion" showing up pregnant?
neighbors
"Well that was predictable. What kind of mother names her child, Maria?"
(A saint.)
You know the old joke about a father caught in the act shouting, "Your mother's a saint." Well, listen to your Father, he's right. And get the "Fuck" out there.
Don't despair. Don't throw away what you are half-examined. Don't let the positive associations you've dared to dream up languish in a bottom drawer. We all promise to keep breathing while you dazzle us with the amazing products of your shit. Let it all hang out. The world's in need of a grand burlesque.
Even the name "Hitler" has its gifts. What would the last century be without that great villain to provide this century with a vocabulary for the creeping evil that we are fighting in every church, synagogue, temple, university and public bar. If you bear that name and its dark gifts turn it inside out for us and show us the sunny side. Because if you are wearing it, it has somehow been repurposed like Mary's name. Mary, the greatest saint, the icon of submission--her name means "rebellion." Can you imagine "rebellion" showing up pregnant?
neighbors
"Well that was predictable. What kind of mother names her child, Maria?"
(A saint.)
You know the old joke about a father caught in the act shouting, "Your mother's a saint." Well, listen to your Father, he's right. And get the "Fuck" out there.
Dali Painted My Day
This is severely edited. I simply can't share all of that, it's too personal, but I can give you glimpses.
Charles D'Ambrosio is ambrosia. I haven't read him, but I think it's safe to predict that I will have read everything of his soon. His speaking meant so much that I found the courage to offer him an origami square, after all he's familiar with people like me.
Marilyn Robinson told me that I'm trying to distill my soul into words. She said that I shouldn't settle for being successful. She gave me permission to aim higher. Marilyn, if you read this, here's your gray origami square.
Debbie Blue pastored me. I've never had a woman pastor before, and I must say it's making me question my orientation. I just kept crying. A librarian sitting next to me was a great comfort.
For lunch, Molly Wolf(thanks for the dandelion) and Allison met me for a therapeutic catharthis involving knitting, which they may have succeeded in convincing me I ought to take up. I hope they won't mind teaching me. Every knitter must choose their own skein.
This next bit is sacred, so you'll have to excuse me if I leave you out. My mother said that whatever scares you is what you should run right toward, and I ran right toward Three Italian Women. I think getting published might be next.
Then I went to After the Feast for dessert, and Joan told me one of the funniest jokes I've ever heard. I guess I shouldn't be surprised since she got it from God. He has such a grand sense of humor. Joan got more than an origami square out of me. She got my work.
Thank you, Walter, for your blessing and your admonitions and your grandfatherly love. It will stay with me for the rest of my life. It has cemented my shape.
Then I came home, and Kurt embraced me and filled me with stories about my children. I don't think I've ever been happier.
Thank you to the Festival Commitee and to all the people who made the festival possible. Even those of you who kept the bathrooms sparkling had an impact on my pleasure and peace. I needed all of you, and I thank you for lending yourselves to God on my behalf. See you next time.
I tend to put the most important things in Post Scripts. To the young gentleman who was assisting Michael Card. You were God's messenger to me. You said "Value yourself." You said it in my native tongue. Thank you.
Charles D'Ambrosio is ambrosia. I haven't read him, but I think it's safe to predict that I will have read everything of his soon. His speaking meant so much that I found the courage to offer him an origami square, after all he's familiar with people like me.
Marilyn Robinson told me that I'm trying to distill my soul into words. She said that I shouldn't settle for being successful. She gave me permission to aim higher. Marilyn, if you read this, here's your gray origami square.
Debbie Blue pastored me. I've never had a woman pastor before, and I must say it's making me question my orientation. I just kept crying. A librarian sitting next to me was a great comfort.
For lunch, Molly Wolf(thanks for the dandelion) and Allison met me for a therapeutic catharthis involving knitting, which they may have succeeded in convincing me I ought to take up. I hope they won't mind teaching me. Every knitter must choose their own skein.
This next bit is sacred, so you'll have to excuse me if I leave you out. My mother said that whatever scares you is what you should run right toward, and I ran right toward Three Italian Women. I think getting published might be next.
Then I went to After the Feast for dessert, and Joan told me one of the funniest jokes I've ever heard. I guess I shouldn't be surprised since she got it from God. He has such a grand sense of humor. Joan got more than an origami square out of me. She got my work.
Thank you, Walter, for your blessing and your admonitions and your grandfatherly love. It will stay with me for the rest of my life. It has cemented my shape.
Then I came home, and Kurt embraced me and filled me with stories about my children. I don't think I've ever been happier.
Thank you to the Festival Commitee and to all the people who made the festival possible. Even those of you who kept the bathrooms sparkling had an impact on my pleasure and peace. I needed all of you, and I thank you for lending yourselves to God on my behalf. See you next time.
I tend to put the most important things in Post Scripts. To the young gentleman who was assisting Michael Card. You were God's messenger to me. You said "Value yourself." You said it in my native tongue. Thank you.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Notes from the Underself
This festival seems to be about subtext for me. I was raised to politely decline reading the subtext of life. Actually it was sort of beaten out of me by people concerned for the health of my soul and the privacy of their insecurities and evils. This festival Laura Maria Censabella brought my personal subtext right up front for me to get a good hard look at, and I've been acting like a sad drunk ever since. I suppose I should feel bad about this, but the Wholly Spirit has been so present with me in my distress, well, who cares as long as He is willing to stick so close and be so kind.
He had me crying when someone named Calvin requested a song on WCSG about people being so wrapped up in their own dreams they didn't notice other's struggles. I felt so noticed and loved by "Calvin" that it seemed God was there in that. I was a bit late for the prayer service, but I thought it was going until 8:30 so I rushed to get there for the close, only to realize that it was over and the sessions were starting at 8:30 not 9:00. I had officially crossed off Michael Card's session on lament because it was such a commercial fan geek thing to do. But the Spirit said, "you're right here and I want you to go." So, I went. Man.
Grace entered me and blessed my obedience. I began to see the people around me so clearly all of the sudden that I had to capture them quickly like a sketch artist. I hadn't quite outgrown being afraid of them yet, so I scribbled my thoughts down in mirror writing like Da Vinci. Then Who Is Like God's Clown began speaking and the light grew stronger and I felt so recycled and purposed. I wanted to share some of the grace of presence I was experiencing so I pulled out a piece of gray oragami paper I'd brought along for a childish project I'd abandoned thirty seconds after arriving yesterday and scribbled my name forwards and backwards. I thought my secret might fit into the secrets he'd smuggled back to us from Romania and China. I thought he might feel a little of my joy, and I thought that was a good way to say thank you for the lecture. I am too fragile for face to face sometimes, so I slipped it to his assistant. I don't think he got it. The assistant froze with such distate that I felt I'd handed him used toilet paper not my name. I was so ashamed of my childishness. How else is the grace of God to be greeted but with haughty disdain?
I fled and God provided me with Jan, and sent me off to Grace and Fire--another seminar I'd crossed off. Jon Sweeney was going to be talking about leaving fundamentalism and I've had it with fundamentalism. The session was full of surprising gifts, the good design of John Terpstra's book, John Terpstra's subject which will be helpful to me as I work on my novel. Richard Lischer's lovely vintage masculinity, which was refreshingly tinted by all the good parts of classic chauvenism and absent the bad.
I was still too overstimulated to keep going with festival, but when I tried to slog on the seminary maze wouldn't let me out. It had a detour just for me. Last festival I'd been saddened by the seminary chapel's disrepair. It seemed that seminary students would need that chapel the most as they prepared for the fearsome future of pastoral ministry and the tiles were falling and the carpet was torn and it was so forlorn in there. Somehow I wound up there, it is so lovely now,
thankfully, it was also empty. God said, pull up my lap and rest, kid. So I did and had such a refreshing time of prayer. If God didn't feel ashamed of me, then I really shouldn't either. If God still loved me, then I should still love me too.
Lunch was good, they remembered the mustard today. Rye bread seemed particularly appropo. I wanted a place of privacy with people, so I headed to the overpass and parked in the window to watch the world go by. The world obligingly went by until Lara settled in with her turkey wrap for our own personal lunch gathering about motherhood and writing. Motherhood is my solace, so sharing about our children and our attempts to enrich them consoled me. We exchanged cards and I ran off for the official lunch break discussion in which I hoped to discover reasons why this blog is a terrible idea. Dave, however, was not nearly as helpful as I had hoped. He was very encouraging and interesting. So were all my other lunch buddies, even when I got a little weepy--sorry guys.
I ran to Mary Karr's session, breathless to hear from such an amazing poet. She started by answering a bunch of memoir questions--God, what is the deal with all this memoir stuff? She got to poetry eventually. I like her crispy fire. I applauded her when she said she knew she was called to write a book, but that didn't mean the book wasn't meant to fail. Of course, I prefer failure, it's so much easier.
I then misread the schedule and ran off to hear Nikki Grimes, who wasn't speaking right then. Instead I ended up in, you guessed it, another memoir session with Kristen Ohlsen and Patricia Raybon. It was a surprising choice since the official topic was journalism and I am not a journalist, but I'd given up questioning God. I fetched water from my car and sat down. The session was a wake up call to the practicality of the work God keeps insisting that I do. I was gently, but firmly admonished to write a page a day and to pray before I started. I was pushed to quit playing and get real.
I went to the music and poetry experiment and I found it luminously soothing. I just let those beautiful young voices and the newly ancient words seep into me. My thanks to all the poets present and absent who contributed.
There were other things, but this is getting long. I have a festival to soak up. See you tomorrow.
He had me crying when someone named Calvin requested a song on WCSG about people being so wrapped up in their own dreams they didn't notice other's struggles. I felt so noticed and loved by "Calvin" that it seemed God was there in that. I was a bit late for the prayer service, but I thought it was going until 8:30 so I rushed to get there for the close, only to realize that it was over and the sessions were starting at 8:30 not 9:00. I had officially crossed off Michael Card's session on lament because it was such a commercial fan geek thing to do. But the Spirit said, "you're right here and I want you to go." So, I went. Man.
Grace entered me and blessed my obedience. I began to see the people around me so clearly all of the sudden that I had to capture them quickly like a sketch artist. I hadn't quite outgrown being afraid of them yet, so I scribbled my thoughts down in mirror writing like Da Vinci. Then Who Is Like God's Clown began speaking and the light grew stronger and I felt so recycled and purposed. I wanted to share some of the grace of presence I was experiencing so I pulled out a piece of gray oragami paper I'd brought along for a childish project I'd abandoned thirty seconds after arriving yesterday and scribbled my name forwards and backwards. I thought my secret might fit into the secrets he'd smuggled back to us from Romania and China. I thought he might feel a little of my joy, and I thought that was a good way to say thank you for the lecture. I am too fragile for face to face sometimes, so I slipped it to his assistant. I don't think he got it. The assistant froze with such distate that I felt I'd handed him used toilet paper not my name. I was so ashamed of my childishness. How else is the grace of God to be greeted but with haughty disdain?
I fled and God provided me with Jan, and sent me off to Grace and Fire--another seminar I'd crossed off. Jon Sweeney was going to be talking about leaving fundamentalism and I've had it with fundamentalism. The session was full of surprising gifts, the good design of John Terpstra's book, John Terpstra's subject which will be helpful to me as I work on my novel. Richard Lischer's lovely vintage masculinity, which was refreshingly tinted by all the good parts of classic chauvenism and absent the bad.
I was still too overstimulated to keep going with festival, but when I tried to slog on the seminary maze wouldn't let me out. It had a detour just for me. Last festival I'd been saddened by the seminary chapel's disrepair. It seemed that seminary students would need that chapel the most as they prepared for the fearsome future of pastoral ministry and the tiles were falling and the carpet was torn and it was so forlorn in there. Somehow I wound up there, it is so lovely now,
thankfully, it was also empty. God said, pull up my lap and rest, kid. So I did and had such a refreshing time of prayer. If God didn't feel ashamed of me, then I really shouldn't either. If God still loved me, then I should still love me too.
Lunch was good, they remembered the mustard today. Rye bread seemed particularly appropo. I wanted a place of privacy with people, so I headed to the overpass and parked in the window to watch the world go by. The world obligingly went by until Lara settled in with her turkey wrap for our own personal lunch gathering about motherhood and writing. Motherhood is my solace, so sharing about our children and our attempts to enrich them consoled me. We exchanged cards and I ran off for the official lunch break discussion in which I hoped to discover reasons why this blog is a terrible idea. Dave, however, was not nearly as helpful as I had hoped. He was very encouraging and interesting. So were all my other lunch buddies, even when I got a little weepy--sorry guys.
I ran to Mary Karr's session, breathless to hear from such an amazing poet. She started by answering a bunch of memoir questions--God, what is the deal with all this memoir stuff? She got to poetry eventually. I like her crispy fire. I applauded her when she said she knew she was called to write a book, but that didn't mean the book wasn't meant to fail. Of course, I prefer failure, it's so much easier.
I then misread the schedule and ran off to hear Nikki Grimes, who wasn't speaking right then. Instead I ended up in, you guessed it, another memoir session with Kristen Ohlsen and Patricia Raybon. It was a surprising choice since the official topic was journalism and I am not a journalist, but I'd given up questioning God. I fetched water from my car and sat down. The session was a wake up call to the practicality of the work God keeps insisting that I do. I was gently, but firmly admonished to write a page a day and to pray before I started. I was pushed to quit playing and get real.
I went to the music and poetry experiment and I found it luminously soothing. I just let those beautiful young voices and the newly ancient words seep into me. My thanks to all the poets present and absent who contributed.
There were other things, but this is getting long. I have a festival to soak up. See you tomorrow.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Festival Grovestand
Here's the early report, very early. I feel like a naughty child the night before a field trip. I just can't sleep. I'm having that much fun.
Kristen Ohlsen was a strong cup of coffee to start my festival with. She shared her surprise that Rush Limbaugh would speak favorably about her book, Stalking the Divine. I was struck by the thought that we are all only really safe touching each other when we are both touching the Divine, and that we are all comforted when we hear that "the enemy" is reaching for Him too.
Lucy Shaw followed with her keynote address, Thumbprint on the Clay. It was beautifully woven and intensely cerebral. Lucy taught me that a poet and the poems are two very separate things--at times. She read this very powerful and personal poem that would have made me so uncomfortable to read to a group of 2,000, and went right on as if she'd been reading the news. She was speaking to our minds not our ears and it was a very enlightening experience.
From there I went to my playwriting workshop with Laura Maria Censabella. Laura is a willow that has been struck by lightening and held the charge. She crackles with life and sensitivity. She had us up and stretching, which felt strange until she told us to close our eyes so that we could be private and then it felt wonderful to respect my body's contribution to my mind's work. We did an intense writing excercise about an object from our childhood that cracked me wide open. Then she had us write a scene involving two people where one is giving the object to another starting with a line that meant, "here, take this; it is everything I am." Afterwards, the braver among us staged their scene, casting from the audience. I enjoyed everyone's work and Laura's kindly insightful comments that drew out engaging lessons from each performance.
Alice McDermott closed the day with a staggering meditation on death and it's importance to both the artist and humanity. I enjoyed her reading from her upcoming book. She then went on to "speak in her own words"--very clever joke--exhorting us to remind everyone that they were going to die and not to offer an antidote. It was all right and wise, but somehow grim. I wish she could have smiled a little more, both for our sake and hers.
There's much more that happened of course, but I'm saving that for another time. I will say the nudey show was nicer than my fantasies. I found myself just soaking up the quiet pleasure of belonging. The festival feels like my lost tribe, only I'm the one who's been missing. That's my favorite thing about this festival so far is the sense of family. While there are awkward gaps of prestige and divisions of authority and position, they are much less noticeable than the spirit of common purpose and passion. The only thing that truly hampers relationships is the shortage of time, but that is a simple fact of life that not even the festival's strong magic can overcome.
Blessings, may you be as well fed today as I am.
Kristen Ohlsen was a strong cup of coffee to start my festival with. She shared her surprise that Rush Limbaugh would speak favorably about her book, Stalking the Divine. I was struck by the thought that we are all only really safe touching each other when we are both touching the Divine, and that we are all comforted when we hear that "the enemy" is reaching for Him too.
Lucy Shaw followed with her keynote address, Thumbprint on the Clay. It was beautifully woven and intensely cerebral. Lucy taught me that a poet and the poems are two very separate things--at times. She read this very powerful and personal poem that would have made me so uncomfortable to read to a group of 2,000, and went right on as if she'd been reading the news. She was speaking to our minds not our ears and it was a very enlightening experience.
From there I went to my playwriting workshop with Laura Maria Censabella. Laura is a willow that has been struck by lightening and held the charge. She crackles with life and sensitivity. She had us up and stretching, which felt strange until she told us to close our eyes so that we could be private and then it felt wonderful to respect my body's contribution to my mind's work. We did an intense writing excercise about an object from our childhood that cracked me wide open. Then she had us write a scene involving two people where one is giving the object to another starting with a line that meant, "here, take this; it is everything I am." Afterwards, the braver among us staged their scene, casting from the audience. I enjoyed everyone's work and Laura's kindly insightful comments that drew out engaging lessons from each performance.
Alice McDermott closed the day with a staggering meditation on death and it's importance to both the artist and humanity. I enjoyed her reading from her upcoming book. She then went on to "speak in her own words"--very clever joke--exhorting us to remind everyone that they were going to die and not to offer an antidote. It was all right and wise, but somehow grim. I wish she could have smiled a little more, both for our sake and hers.
There's much more that happened of course, but I'm saving that for another time. I will say the nudey show was nicer than my fantasies. I found myself just soaking up the quiet pleasure of belonging. The festival feels like my lost tribe, only I'm the one who's been missing. That's my favorite thing about this festival so far is the sense of family. While there are awkward gaps of prestige and divisions of authority and position, they are much less noticeable than the spirit of common purpose and passion. The only thing that truly hampers relationships is the shortage of time, but that is a simple fact of life that not even the festival's strong magic can overcome.
Blessings, may you be as well fed today as I am.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Origami Peace
For Nicholas Samaras whose red eggs were part of my Easter
The inverted impulse of his hands shaped the small gray square into a dove
Questioning pain's power to paralyze
Imprisoning darkness in its wrinkles
Twittering, it spread its message 'round
Gathering a group of merry friends
Wondering if that was its purpose all along
The secret intention of the art that flies up out of us and loves
The inverted impulse of his hands shaped the small gray square into a dove
Questioning pain's power to paralyze
Imprisoning darkness in its wrinkles
Twittering, it spread its message 'round
Gathering a group of merry friends
Wondering if that was its purpose all along
The secret intention of the art that flies up out of us and loves
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Countdown to the Festival
Only two days until I head out to the Festival of Faith and Writing. An inveterate planner such as myself surely has a checklist of necessities you say, so glad you asked.
A giant tote bag--to schlep home all those books. Mine has a special compartment to keep snacks and water cool and refreshing.
A tiny umbrella--Rain is predicted. I'm rather bummed, and a tad anxious. I chose the umbrella because the festival requires an unbelievable amount of walking. I tried to plan the contents of my tote bag in the same spirit of a backpacking expedition.
Business cards--you can't beat free! Thanks, Vista Print. I love those guys.
Bottled Water--This was controversial. On the one hand they offer it free as a perk in the Prince Center, and it's heavy. On the other hand I found myself stuck without some and I dislike water fountains. For some reason they are always in bad repair.
Bandaids--I learned last year that while my shoes are adequate for running errands comfortably they can't stand up to all that walking on Calvin's campus. No more blisters for me.
Cute clothes--I hit the sale racks hard. I found some darling stuff, including this ruby-coral jacket with three-quarter length sleeves and a cut straight out of the fifties. I'm wearing it with darling little khaki capris and a white tank if you're going to be looking for me the first day.
A notebook--I don't think I've gone much of anywhere without a blank notebook since my first little composition book bought for me by desperate parents on a long drive from Michigan to Maryland.
Comfortable shoes--I may even go with my sandals if it's warm enough. Don't think that just because they are comfortable I've sacrificed fashion--oh no, I love shoes.
Cute haircut--provided by Janis, styled by me. Janis did a fabulous job (if you live in the area and need a master stylist, call me), my only concern is that I don't seem to be able to style it with the same oomph she gives it. Hair isn't my gift.
An open heart--well, why wouldn't I? The people at Calvin have been nothing but lovely, and last time was one of the highlights of my life.
I hope you have something equally exciting to look forward to. If not, feel free to borrow my experience. I'll be posting all the juicy bits, and think of all the shopping it's saving you! I know I've had some great vicarious adventures wandering around these blogs; it's time for me to give back to the blogging community.
Blessings!
A giant tote bag--to schlep home all those books. Mine has a special compartment to keep snacks and water cool and refreshing.
A tiny umbrella--Rain is predicted. I'm rather bummed, and a tad anxious. I chose the umbrella because the festival requires an unbelievable amount of walking. I tried to plan the contents of my tote bag in the same spirit of a backpacking expedition.
Business cards--you can't beat free! Thanks, Vista Print. I love those guys.
Bottled Water--This was controversial. On the one hand they offer it free as a perk in the Prince Center, and it's heavy. On the other hand I found myself stuck without some and I dislike water fountains. For some reason they are always in bad repair.
Bandaids--I learned last year that while my shoes are adequate for running errands comfortably they can't stand up to all that walking on Calvin's campus. No more blisters for me.
Cute clothes--I hit the sale racks hard. I found some darling stuff, including this ruby-coral jacket with three-quarter length sleeves and a cut straight out of the fifties. I'm wearing it with darling little khaki capris and a white tank if you're going to be looking for me the first day.
A notebook--I don't think I've gone much of anywhere without a blank notebook since my first little composition book bought for me by desperate parents on a long drive from Michigan to Maryland.
Comfortable shoes--I may even go with my sandals if it's warm enough. Don't think that just because they are comfortable I've sacrificed fashion--oh no, I love shoes.
Cute haircut--provided by Janis, styled by me. Janis did a fabulous job (if you live in the area and need a master stylist, call me), my only concern is that I don't seem to be able to style it with the same oomph she gives it. Hair isn't my gift.
An open heart--well, why wouldn't I? The people at Calvin have been nothing but lovely, and last time was one of the highlights of my life.
I hope you have something equally exciting to look forward to. If not, feel free to borrow my experience. I'll be posting all the juicy bits, and think of all the shopping it's saving you! I know I've had some great vicarious adventures wandering around these blogs; it's time for me to give back to the blogging community.
Blessings!
Monday, April 17, 2006
Diamonds in the Rough
for Kurt
When I look into your eyes
I am quite surprised
to find this treasure mine.
When I look into your eyes
I am quite surprised
to find this treasure mine.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Easter the thirteenth
If you were expecting a warm little piece about the wonders of Easter or family life, well, so was I. The holiday started off happily enough. We packed the van full of children and Easter candy, enjoyed a pleasant drive ending with an ecstatic reunion between grandchildren and grandparents who have been separated far too long--Ok, several weeks, and settled in for this most important day of the year. I was sent to bed early when the combined after-affects of frenetic gardening and writing left me unable to count my own hand during cribbage.
The fun began shortly after midnight when my husband realized we'd left everybody's Easter clothes back home. We tried to strategize a solution, but our efforts turned out to be unnecessary when the 3rd and the 5th began alternating vomiting and having unfortunate adventures with urine. The unfortunate events continued throughout the day only the 4th took over for the 5th in the misplaced urine events. I'd like to say I learned some uplifting lesson, but mostly I just sympathized with our 3rd when she said she didn't know what God was thinking. I suppose tending to and being tended by the people you love best is a good way to remember Christ on Easter, but we were all thinking of several other more pleasant ones.
I'm grateful that our little trials can't dimish the ultimate glory of Easter. I'm glad that even if everything failed to come off except the hitches, that we at least had something so good to try to celebrate, and that ultimately there will be a celebration that even the flu can't touch.
The fun began shortly after midnight when my husband realized we'd left everybody's Easter clothes back home. We tried to strategize a solution, but our efforts turned out to be unnecessary when the 3rd and the 5th began alternating vomiting and having unfortunate adventures with urine. The unfortunate events continued throughout the day only the 4th took over for the 5th in the misplaced urine events. I'd like to say I learned some uplifting lesson, but mostly I just sympathized with our 3rd when she said she didn't know what God was thinking. I suppose tending to and being tended by the people you love best is a good way to remember Christ on Easter, but we were all thinking of several other more pleasant ones.
I'm grateful that our little trials can't dimish the ultimate glory of Easter. I'm glad that even if everything failed to come off except the hitches, that we at least had something so good to try to celebrate, and that ultimately there will be a celebration that even the flu can't touch.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Meatloaf in the Middle
This morning our 4th came into our bed and announced that she wanted to be the meatloaf. Yesterday, we'd played a game where she'd been the baloney in the middle of a parent sandwich, but since it had ended with tearful protests that she didn't want to be the baloney, I thought we'd never play that again. It turns out she objects to the baloney part, meatloaf is fine. We don't eat much balogna these days, just lowfat turkey and ham, maybe that is why I get so happy about leftover meatloaf sandwiches. Meatloaf is so comforting. The ingredients are frugal, so there's no guilt about expense. Mom and everybody else you knew growing up made it, so it's very familiar. And now that I'm an independent grownup, I can make it my way with the stuff I like and very, very crusty from going looooooooooong in the crock pot.
Today is the middle of the Easter holiday. The waiting day. When I was a kid it was a day of snooping and fluffing the frills on my dress. I'd try my little hat on over and over hoping not to get caught. If I was really good, I could even spend a few minutes tap dancing in my shiny new shoes. Saturday seemed very long, and just when you didn't want it to be. I had to wait, but at least I knew good things were coming.
Faith is always certain that good things are ahead, but waiting develops the excellent sauce of hunger. We get so weary and hungry when we have to wait for all those good carrots to stop dangling and start falling. I used to hate the waiting, but as I grow more disciplined in my spritiual life, I've come to think of it like meatloaf--inexpensive, familiar and nourishing. I can enjoy it as a feast of its own because perserverance has produced a little character. Waiting doesn't taste like anything when you first begin to eat it, but give it time. It grows you.
Today is the middle of the Easter holiday. The waiting day. When I was a kid it was a day of snooping and fluffing the frills on my dress. I'd try my little hat on over and over hoping not to get caught. If I was really good, I could even spend a few minutes tap dancing in my shiny new shoes. Saturday seemed very long, and just when you didn't want it to be. I had to wait, but at least I knew good things were coming.
Faith is always certain that good things are ahead, but waiting develops the excellent sauce of hunger. We get so weary and hungry when we have to wait for all those good carrots to stop dangling and start falling. I used to hate the waiting, but as I grow more disciplined in my spritiual life, I've come to think of it like meatloaf--inexpensive, familiar and nourishing. I can enjoy it as a feast of its own because perserverance has produced a little character. Waiting doesn't taste like anything when you first begin to eat it, but give it time. It grows you.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Sandals
Run and get your Jesus shoes.
Everybody spread the news.
The Son is kissing all our toes.
Now we can follow wherever He goes.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Attention Deficit Disorder
My mother had a late term miscarriage when I was three years old. The nursery was all set up. The little dresser was filled with my hand-me-downs (I'm sure he would have loved that.) We spent a little time every day talking to and about our new baby. I can still remember putting my two little hands on her tummy and feeling him kick. I would bury my ear in her belly hoping to catch any little sibling to sibling secrets he might want to pass along. We were all filled with such anticipation. If only one of about six things had gone right, we'd have had our happiness, but instead I have this haunting need to pay attention. What is happily certain today may tomorrow be tragically lost, so pay attention to today's joy today.
The trouble is there is so much to see and remember. My mother and father are lovely nurturing people full of faith and love and wisdom. I want to soak every bit of it up, especially now as the wrinkles grow deeper and that little daily pill box puts in its first appearance. Then there's my children. I blink and they are reading. I blink again and they are viewing me critically. I'm afraid I'll blink again and they'll be gone. My husband is the guy who's always there just for me. I knew I'd married the right one when I apologized for all the books I buy and he looked at me puzzled and said, "but you need them." He's got these very sexy silver threads scattered through the chocolate that is his hair, and I don't want to miss a memory of time with him. There are so many wonderful people in the world offering so many gifts. When you add to this all the wonderful things there are to know and do and that drive to write your Kilroy, life seems too rich, too full, too demanding and too short. You simply don't have enough attention to pay.
Perhaps that is what is stunting the modern world. Perhaps that is what we are medicating out of our children. Sudden death stalks us early and always now. There's the old atomic threat that duck and cover doesn't cover anymore. Terrorism has added its vicious presence, and murder happens every day on 30-100 channels of cable or dish. Maybe as a race we're trying to remember it all before its all gone. Before the Tsunami swallows up our vacation. Before Allah's crazy nephews set the wedding on fire. Before the hurricane drowns the jazz that was covering over the blues. Maybe I'm not the only one trying to remember today's joys today at the expense of tomorrow's achievements.
The trouble is there is so much to see and remember. My mother and father are lovely nurturing people full of faith and love and wisdom. I want to soak every bit of it up, especially now as the wrinkles grow deeper and that little daily pill box puts in its first appearance. Then there's my children. I blink and they are reading. I blink again and they are viewing me critically. I'm afraid I'll blink again and they'll be gone. My husband is the guy who's always there just for me. I knew I'd married the right one when I apologized for all the books I buy and he looked at me puzzled and said, "but you need them." He's got these very sexy silver threads scattered through the chocolate that is his hair, and I don't want to miss a memory of time with him. There are so many wonderful people in the world offering so many gifts. When you add to this all the wonderful things there are to know and do and that drive to write your Kilroy, life seems too rich, too full, too demanding and too short. You simply don't have enough attention to pay.
Perhaps that is what is stunting the modern world. Perhaps that is what we are medicating out of our children. Sudden death stalks us early and always now. There's the old atomic threat that duck and cover doesn't cover anymore. Terrorism has added its vicious presence, and murder happens every day on 30-100 channels of cable or dish. Maybe as a race we're trying to remember it all before its all gone. Before the Tsunami swallows up our vacation. Before Allah's crazy nephews set the wedding on fire. Before the hurricane drowns the jazz that was covering over the blues. Maybe I'm not the only one trying to remember today's joys today at the expense of tomorrow's achievements.
Public Service Announcement
Annual Vision Screenings for children are not optional. They should be mandatory and paid for by the state.
Off to the Nudey Show
Two years ago I attended the Festival of Faith and Writing. Frederick Buechner was the main attraction. His books had comforted me in darkness, and I wanted to say thanks. That experience was amazing, but more amazing still was the discovery that in a large gathering of writers I fit right in. I found my niche, my place in the world, and I'm very grateful.
Festival time is here again, and I wanted to express my appreciation, so I supported the festival with a small donation. Gratitude keeps on giving and the festival has in turn invited me to a reception. I'm hopeful that the reception will be an intimate affair spangled with literary glitterati and me. My imagination is floundering in fantasy, but I come back to earth quickly with that all-important question--what to wear?
I've thumbed through my wardrobe without enthusiasm and the family budget has declared my festival spending spree closed. The more I consider the possibilities, the more the question seems to be what NOT to wear. After all, these are the literary equivalent of porn stars who've sent several thousand copies of their naked souls out for general consumption. In such a grand company of exhibitionists, wouldn't good manners dictate that I should strip at least a little to put them more at ease?
In honor of Emily Post I've decided I simply must print up a few of my better pieces to hand around. Perhaps a few of the worse ones too. After all, away from their editor's retouching, some of the stars might find that spare tire embarrassing; a glimpse of my thighs ought to be just the thing to get them back in the spirit.
But, if that's the fashion, then what is my poor husband to do? He's an engineer. He could describe his machines for several hours and remain just as clothed. Listening an engineer naked is a difficult skill to master, but one I've enjoyed practicing. No, I suppose I'd best keep my clothes on for his sake. We'll have to content ourselves with enjoying the view.
Festival time is here again, and I wanted to express my appreciation, so I supported the festival with a small donation. Gratitude keeps on giving and the festival has in turn invited me to a reception. I'm hopeful that the reception will be an intimate affair spangled with literary glitterati and me. My imagination is floundering in fantasy, but I come back to earth quickly with that all-important question--what to wear?
I've thumbed through my wardrobe without enthusiasm and the family budget has declared my festival spending spree closed. The more I consider the possibilities, the more the question seems to be what NOT to wear. After all, these are the literary equivalent of porn stars who've sent several thousand copies of their naked souls out for general consumption. In such a grand company of exhibitionists, wouldn't good manners dictate that I should strip at least a little to put them more at ease?
In honor of Emily Post I've decided I simply must print up a few of my better pieces to hand around. Perhaps a few of the worse ones too. After all, away from their editor's retouching, some of the stars might find that spare tire embarrassing; a glimpse of my thighs ought to be just the thing to get them back in the spirit.
But, if that's the fashion, then what is my poor husband to do? He's an engineer. He could describe his machines for several hours and remain just as clothed. Listening an engineer naked is a difficult skill to master, but one I've enjoyed practicing. No, I suppose I'd best keep my clothes on for his sake. We'll have to content ourselves with enjoying the view.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
The Song of Salmon
Alone they came to me to stay the night.
Aloof, they slept not in my perfumed bed.
Beware the innocent stranger, I thought
Because men here are never innocent.
Calamity came to strike the wary peace.
Cries broke the night and pierced my open door.
Demanding my guests, they mistook me for
Delilah who gave all to all who asked.
Eager men searched my linen-covered bed
Entranced by fantasies too expensive
For ordinary men to oft afford.
Fragile my power became as blood hunger
Harried their horns and hardened bad intent
Hastily, I wove a path of soothing lies.
I told them out the gate they'd find the spies.
I hinted that success might bring reward
Just with the slightest twinkle of the eye.
Judicious men prefer the pleasure earned.
Knowledge is power. They were impotent.
Kindness beneath the roof flax lay trembling.
Love is a more skillful hunter than hate;
Ladies never failed their lover to find
Misplaced within my harlot pleasure house.
Mercy was my hunger. I brought them out.
Naivete was doubly good for me
Necessity, the mother of my dirty work
Opened my melting heart's secret terror
Out came flattery, praise, new-born hope,
Pleading for clemency for me and mine
Praying omnipotent power be kind.
Quietly, the red cord led them away.
Quickly, I retrieved this token of promise
Reeling in the tidings of the fresh dawn.
Rejoicing, I prepared for coming doom.
Sated men forever left my grave home
Secure in their wall's dividing power.
True, the omnipotent seems impotent
Unable to do more than march around.
Unwilling, my family sits imprisoned.
Various relations rise to leave me.
Vainly I plead for an hour. They will not
Wait for what may never come. They will not
Wish for peace, not even trumpet call can
Excite loyalty in those deaf to the
Exception. The wind begins to blow like
Zephyr's breath, bringing to me the scion of
Zerah's twin, ancestor of life's only hope.
Aloof, they slept not in my perfumed bed.
Beware the innocent stranger, I thought
Because men here are never innocent.
Calamity came to strike the wary peace.
Cries broke the night and pierced my open door.
Demanding my guests, they mistook me for
Delilah who gave all to all who asked.
Eager men searched my linen-covered bed
Entranced by fantasies too expensive
For ordinary men to oft afford.
Fragile my power became as blood hunger
Harried their horns and hardened bad intent
Hastily, I wove a path of soothing lies.
I told them out the gate they'd find the spies.
I hinted that success might bring reward
Just with the slightest twinkle of the eye.
Judicious men prefer the pleasure earned.
Knowledge is power. They were impotent.
Kindness beneath the roof flax lay trembling.
Love is a more skillful hunter than hate;
Ladies never failed their lover to find
Misplaced within my harlot pleasure house.
Mercy was my hunger. I brought them out.
Naivete was doubly good for me
Necessity, the mother of my dirty work
Opened my melting heart's secret terror
Out came flattery, praise, new-born hope,
Pleading for clemency for me and mine
Praying omnipotent power be kind.
Quietly, the red cord led them away.
Quickly, I retrieved this token of promise
Reeling in the tidings of the fresh dawn.
Rejoicing, I prepared for coming doom.
Sated men forever left my grave home
Secure in their wall's dividing power.
True, the omnipotent seems impotent
Unable to do more than march around.
Unwilling, my family sits imprisoned.
Various relations rise to leave me.
Vainly I plead for an hour. They will not
Wait for what may never come. They will not
Wish for peace, not even trumpet call can
Excite loyalty in those deaf to the
Exception. The wind begins to blow like
Zephyr's breath, bringing to me the scion of
Zerah's twin, ancestor of life's only hope.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Baby Barrage
I have been carrying around a baby shower invite in my purse for several days. I do so because it's the only way for me to remember something so out of my norm, and because it's such a treasure. I don't understand the current rolled-eyes cynicism of women toward baby showers. Granted, the genre could use some livening up. I could personally pass on the mini-diapers with fake baby poo pins that were part of the charm of my last baby shower. Then again, 10 years straight of daily diaper changes has really killed any buzz baby poo may have held for me.
That conceded, baby showers are still wonderful. You have the neophyte mother, her adorable belly squirming with new life. You have the supportive friends, equal parts jealousy and pity. Finally the soon-to-be grandmothers who are happy to be getting a baby without all that labor and delivery. There's cake and ice cream, and hilariously useless gifts. I love these. I love watching the mother who was really hoping for the baby wipe's warmer force a smile as she opens yet another package of receiving blankets. I get a little teary when she tries to seem pleased when that box she was sure was the video monitoring system is really a giant supply of homemade cloth diapers in a dazzling array of cartoon character prints.
Personally, I favor buying gifts for the mother. The baby will get what the baby needs. Babies are notorious for getting their wily little way. Mom though is often neglected. I recommend a basket of stuff for after she gets home from the hospital, or if you are a close friend or relative a small gym bag full of treats for the hospital stay. If you've been through child-birth and it's aftermath, you know what she needs. A quick and easy shower gel and scrubby that can convey some of the comfort of a good soak when you're really just lucky to get wet is helpful. A supply of nutritionally sound cookies for late night nursing is a nice personal touch. A pair of books explicating both the let them holler until they give up method and the give up and take 'em into bed with you method of getting some sleep will meet needs she doesn't know she has. Finally, a sophisticated blank book in which she can safely record some of the darker musings motherhood will inspire may keep past-partum depression from blooming.
To sum up, we can stop rolling our eyes at baby showers because we can also stop creating showers based on male perceptions of the impending event. We don't have to waft around on artificial happiness. We can embrace the savory reality of motherhood, and gift accordingly. Ya-Ya.
That conceded, baby showers are still wonderful. You have the neophyte mother, her adorable belly squirming with new life. You have the supportive friends, equal parts jealousy and pity. Finally the soon-to-be grandmothers who are happy to be getting a baby without all that labor and delivery. There's cake and ice cream, and hilariously useless gifts. I love these. I love watching the mother who was really hoping for the baby wipe's warmer force a smile as she opens yet another package of receiving blankets. I get a little teary when she tries to seem pleased when that box she was sure was the video monitoring system is really a giant supply of homemade cloth diapers in a dazzling array of cartoon character prints.
Personally, I favor buying gifts for the mother. The baby will get what the baby needs. Babies are notorious for getting their wily little way. Mom though is often neglected. I recommend a basket of stuff for after she gets home from the hospital, or if you are a close friend or relative a small gym bag full of treats for the hospital stay. If you've been through child-birth and it's aftermath, you know what she needs. A quick and easy shower gel and scrubby that can convey some of the comfort of a good soak when you're really just lucky to get wet is helpful. A supply of nutritionally sound cookies for late night nursing is a nice personal touch. A pair of books explicating both the let them holler until they give up method and the give up and take 'em into bed with you method of getting some sleep will meet needs she doesn't know she has. Finally, a sophisticated blank book in which she can safely record some of the darker musings motherhood will inspire may keep past-partum depression from blooming.
To sum up, we can stop rolling our eyes at baby showers because we can also stop creating showers based on male perceptions of the impending event. We don't have to waft around on artificial happiness. We can embrace the savory reality of motherhood, and gift accordingly. Ya-Ya.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
for those who worship with brushes and paint, a request
I woke up this morning hating those who for principle's sake won't sell me art supplies on the Sabbath (that was yesterday, wasn't it?). Normally, I admire them the way I admire the Amish, but today, they are terribly inconvenient. I do not know anything about painting. I've never even tried before today, but today I can see a triptych in my heart and it must get out. So, here it is in my medium, word, hoping to be translated into your medium, paint. (I was going to do it in an abstracted manner, but that's because I can't paint and I love abstraction. You do it however you like to paint.)
It's a window shaped triptych with that lovely pointed arch that opens like shutters, making a lovely little W for worship when you it lies open. On the left panel there's the virgin and child on the day of Christ's circumcision. They are standing in front of the temple and Mary is holding the baby aloft. She has her back to us, kind of a three-quarters turn and she is holding the child up toward the hinge. The wind of the Holy Spirit is blowing with great joy, and she radiates joy as her corn-flower blue skirt swirls and her head scarf is blown off (perhaps you could work in a dove and the traditional sun beams?). The baby is bawling and red with the pain he's trying to recover from. (It helps if you've held a baby who's just been circumcised.)
The main panel is the crucifixion. Christ hangs in the upper left quadrant of the panel. His agony fills his yellow-green body and the blood flows down a little hill. He is alone without the thieves. The sky is charcoal and misty grey. The hill is a verdant green. He is wrapped with a mud brown loin cloth. At the foot of hill is a puddle of midnight blue. It's Mary, her white head cloth nearly obscuring her face. What we can see of her face echoes his agony, only without the distraction of meaning, in her face pain is alone. Mary is sprawled on the ground, her left foot reaches toward us, the right is tucked up under her. Her right arm reaches up, the left lies lifeless on her side.
The right panel is the wedding at Cana. Mary and the bride, with their backs to us dominate the lower left of the painting. Mary is dressed all in white with a comforting arm around the bride's waist. The bride is wearing a rosey-raspberry and though she has been dressed and coifed with great care she isn't quite beautiful. She is worried, but not dejected because Mary is comforting her. Mary's arm gestures toward Jesus who faces us, but he is three-quarter turned toward the hinges. He is dressed in red or at least so swathed by a massive crimson drape he might as well be. He is not looking at Mary or the bride. He is looking at the cross and his face is saying, "What have I to do with thee?"
I'd like to add a border, styled like the Book of Kells. Around the main panel, I put the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil at the peak. Surrounding it I'd do a serpant entwined with himself eating his tail with the head placed near the foot of the cross. On the open leaves, I would match the shape of the border on the main panel and do a lush treatment of fig leaves. When the tryptych was closed the fig leaves would cover the snake and the fruit. You could only see it in your imagination, but I think that's worth it.
If I was going to paint the outside of the triptych for when it's closed up, (which I wouldn't because it's for this amazing triangle space in my house and no one would ever see the outside. Besides, if I could pull all that off it'd be a miracle; I would have no artistic genius left for the outside.), maybe I'd cheat like Warhol and silk screen one of the iconic images of the Virgin and Child. On the back of the case, where no one would ever, ever look, I'd figure out a way to do God the Father embracing his radiant Sun. I'd paint my father, smiling.
If you ever finish it, send me a picture. Or if you are feeling extravagantly generous, send me the triptych. I promise to use it wisely and display it proudly. I'll try to come up with word art that will be worth the exchange.
It's a window shaped triptych with that lovely pointed arch that opens like shutters, making a lovely little W for worship when you it lies open. On the left panel there's the virgin and child on the day of Christ's circumcision. They are standing in front of the temple and Mary is holding the baby aloft. She has her back to us, kind of a three-quarters turn and she is holding the child up toward the hinge. The wind of the Holy Spirit is blowing with great joy, and she radiates joy as her corn-flower blue skirt swirls and her head scarf is blown off (perhaps you could work in a dove and the traditional sun beams?). The baby is bawling and red with the pain he's trying to recover from. (It helps if you've held a baby who's just been circumcised.)
The main panel is the crucifixion. Christ hangs in the upper left quadrant of the panel. His agony fills his yellow-green body and the blood flows down a little hill. He is alone without the thieves. The sky is charcoal and misty grey. The hill is a verdant green. He is wrapped with a mud brown loin cloth. At the foot of hill is a puddle of midnight blue. It's Mary, her white head cloth nearly obscuring her face. What we can see of her face echoes his agony, only without the distraction of meaning, in her face pain is alone. Mary is sprawled on the ground, her left foot reaches toward us, the right is tucked up under her. Her right arm reaches up, the left lies lifeless on her side.
The right panel is the wedding at Cana. Mary and the bride, with their backs to us dominate the lower left of the painting. Mary is dressed all in white with a comforting arm around the bride's waist. The bride is wearing a rosey-raspberry and though she has been dressed and coifed with great care she isn't quite beautiful. She is worried, but not dejected because Mary is comforting her. Mary's arm gestures toward Jesus who faces us, but he is three-quarter turned toward the hinges. He is dressed in red or at least so swathed by a massive crimson drape he might as well be. He is not looking at Mary or the bride. He is looking at the cross and his face is saying, "What have I to do with thee?"
I'd like to add a border, styled like the Book of Kells. Around the main panel, I put the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil at the peak. Surrounding it I'd do a serpant entwined with himself eating his tail with the head placed near the foot of the cross. On the open leaves, I would match the shape of the border on the main panel and do a lush treatment of fig leaves. When the tryptych was closed the fig leaves would cover the snake and the fruit. You could only see it in your imagination, but I think that's worth it.
If I was going to paint the outside of the triptych for when it's closed up, (which I wouldn't because it's for this amazing triangle space in my house and no one would ever see the outside. Besides, if I could pull all that off it'd be a miracle; I would have no artistic genius left for the outside.), maybe I'd cheat like Warhol and silk screen one of the iconic images of the Virgin and Child. On the back of the case, where no one would ever, ever look, I'd figure out a way to do God the Father embracing his radiant Sun. I'd paint my father, smiling.
If you ever finish it, send me a picture. Or if you are feeling extravagantly generous, send me the triptych. I promise to use it wisely and display it proudly. I'll try to come up with word art that will be worth the exchange.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Dancing the Night Away
My favorite memories of childhood start early because I have great parents. There's the memory of seeing dad in the tub for the last time. The conversation they had about me acknowledged me as a thinking person for the first time. Then, there's earnestly inquiring about the proper way to butter pancakes which seemed to me a very solemn rite. But I think my very best baby memories are about dancing.
Everything made me want to dance, Dancing Bear on Captain Kangaroo, rain showers, tulips, sunshine, butterflies, and Sunshine Lane. People who think of fundamentalists as dour, despairing people who need a personal Easter in the worst way are, roughly speaking, right, but smoothly speaking they couldn't be more mistaken. Fundamentalists insist on happiness at all costs and their art reflects this demand. The happiest and most comforting portions of Christian theology are the nearly exclusive creative sources. Fundamentalist artists may paint a picture that is impossibly grim, but there's never any real cause for worry. Good is guaranteed to triumph in the end. I love that about fundamentalism.
You may be thinking that a little sprite who loves to dance was somewhat misplaced in a fundamentalist environment. Well, roughly speaking, you're right, smoothly speaking, you couldn't, you just couldn't be more mistaken. My first dances took place in our living room. Mother loves music so something was always spinning on the stereo. Doug Oldham was huge at that time and my daddy sings in the same register; so Doug Oldham provided a lot of our background music. My all-time favorite, then and now, is "Bathing in the Sunlight of God's Love." My baby dancing was wildly improvisational. I'd prance down "Sunshine Lane." I'd roll up into and out of my security blanket when "King Jesus rolled my burdens away." I'd trickle down like a lazy rain drop during "Ever Gentle, Ever Sweet." There was the pleasure of new dances and the comfort of the same old songs.
My dancing days didn't last very long. We were watching Partridge Family reruns, and I got happy. I started bending my knees, bouncing like the girl with the tamborine. I wanted a tamborine. I wanted to sing and bounce while lots of people smiled at me. "What are you doing?" Mom asked. I explained the obvious. "We aren't allowed to do that. It's wrong." she said. I was puzzled. "I can't bend my knees?" It was Mother's turn to be perplexed, finally she just said I'd understand when I was older. I don't think either of us ever really did. We just gave up dancing for what was the longest Lent of my life.
In my teen years I decided that though I could not justify the categorical ban on dancing I'd give it up for the sake of the "weaker brother." Since the "weaker brothers" were my elders and teachers this seemed paradoxical, but life is paradoxical. In college I took it back up, but in secret when the dorm was empty. After graduation I called it Aerobics. Bathing in the Sunlight was endangered through overuse, so I set it aside for emergencies. In those days I boogied to The Newsboys, D.C. Talk and Michael Card. Sure, I could have gone Top 40, but the horribly amusing thing about all of this is that for me dancing is an act of worship. There is no fuller way of expressing pleasure in the sacred than to kick about the womb in which we live and move and have our being. I abandoned all caution when my babies started dancing. We boogied. We jived. We balleted. I didn't abandon fundamentalism though, fundamentalism abandoned me.
I smile now when I remember that our church's mission was to "rechurch America." There were five Baptist churches of the same species within ten minutes of our congregation. I use the word congregation with an imaginative generosity. There were perhaps thirty of us, total. I was living the idyllic picture I was raised to worship--Wholesome Young Family Laboring for the Lord. We were a third of the deacon board, two-thirds of the Sunday School staff, the entire youth department, a tenth of the choir and a tenth of the budget. Nothing seemed powerful enough to daunt my ardent optimism--not even gross sin by any human measure. There are procedures for correcting such problems in fundamentalism and all we had to do was follow them. I thought all fundamentalists were as charmed as I. I was mistaken. When angry ignorance reached for my children, it finally over-reached. The trap was sprung. While my body went right on dancing, my heart was still.
Grief and death are the same. We can make a pretense of distinguishing between them, but that's all it is, a pretense. We all face Good Fridays in our lives, but we enter the tomb for the Hebrew's indeterminate forty days. Dead always feels like forever.
I missed my Easter. I didn't see it until it was reflected back to me in the other's eyes. One pair forgave me everything. Others found comfort in my despairing prayers. A blue pair noticed I was unbalanced and tried to right things. A dark pair mistrusted my faith in him. A twinkly pair dismissed my thanks. A sharp pair of guniea pig eyes taught me where the burden lies. Five young pairs began to laugh at my jokes. I looked in His eyes, and that majestic pair sang "You make me feel like dancing, dancing the night away." When I finally looked in the mirror I surprised myself with Easter.
I haven't felt this happy since I was told I wasn't allowed to bend my knees. It seems impossible that my life should be so long in shadow. It is amazing that after despair should come such joy and faith. I guess it is right to insist on happiness at all costs. Fundamentally joy and hope do trump remorse and despair even when they are on the losing side, roughly speaking. Smoothly speaking, I could just say, "You can take the girl out of fundamentalism, but you can't take the fundamentals out of the girl." I wasn't wrong to dance along with Doug then and I'm not wrong to sing with him now.
Oh what a friend we have in Jesus
He leaves nothing to desire.
No more wandering, no more searching ever,
He completely satisfies.
And now it's so amazing, deep within my heart is endless pleasure
Bathing in the Sunlight of God's Love.
Everything made me want to dance, Dancing Bear on Captain Kangaroo, rain showers, tulips, sunshine, butterflies, and Sunshine Lane. People who think of fundamentalists as dour, despairing people who need a personal Easter in the worst way are, roughly speaking, right, but smoothly speaking they couldn't be more mistaken. Fundamentalists insist on happiness at all costs and their art reflects this demand. The happiest and most comforting portions of Christian theology are the nearly exclusive creative sources. Fundamentalist artists may paint a picture that is impossibly grim, but there's never any real cause for worry. Good is guaranteed to triumph in the end. I love that about fundamentalism.
You may be thinking that a little sprite who loves to dance was somewhat misplaced in a fundamentalist environment. Well, roughly speaking, you're right, smoothly speaking, you couldn't, you just couldn't be more mistaken. My first dances took place in our living room. Mother loves music so something was always spinning on the stereo. Doug Oldham was huge at that time and my daddy sings in the same register; so Doug Oldham provided a lot of our background music. My all-time favorite, then and now, is "Bathing in the Sunlight of God's Love." My baby dancing was wildly improvisational. I'd prance down "Sunshine Lane." I'd roll up into and out of my security blanket when "King Jesus rolled my burdens away." I'd trickle down like a lazy rain drop during "Ever Gentle, Ever Sweet." There was the pleasure of new dances and the comfort of the same old songs.
My dancing days didn't last very long. We were watching Partridge Family reruns, and I got happy. I started bending my knees, bouncing like the girl with the tamborine. I wanted a tamborine. I wanted to sing and bounce while lots of people smiled at me. "What are you doing?" Mom asked. I explained the obvious. "We aren't allowed to do that. It's wrong." she said. I was puzzled. "I can't bend my knees?" It was Mother's turn to be perplexed, finally she just said I'd understand when I was older. I don't think either of us ever really did. We just gave up dancing for what was the longest Lent of my life.
In my teen years I decided that though I could not justify the categorical ban on dancing I'd give it up for the sake of the "weaker brother." Since the "weaker brothers" were my elders and teachers this seemed paradoxical, but life is paradoxical. In college I took it back up, but in secret when the dorm was empty. After graduation I called it Aerobics. Bathing in the Sunlight was endangered through overuse, so I set it aside for emergencies. In those days I boogied to The Newsboys, D.C. Talk and Michael Card. Sure, I could have gone Top 40, but the horribly amusing thing about all of this is that for me dancing is an act of worship. There is no fuller way of expressing pleasure in the sacred than to kick about the womb in which we live and move and have our being. I abandoned all caution when my babies started dancing. We boogied. We jived. We balleted. I didn't abandon fundamentalism though, fundamentalism abandoned me.
I smile now when I remember that our church's mission was to "rechurch America." There were five Baptist churches of the same species within ten minutes of our congregation. I use the word congregation with an imaginative generosity. There were perhaps thirty of us, total. I was living the idyllic picture I was raised to worship--Wholesome Young Family Laboring for the Lord. We were a third of the deacon board, two-thirds of the Sunday School staff, the entire youth department, a tenth of the choir and a tenth of the budget. Nothing seemed powerful enough to daunt my ardent optimism--not even gross sin by any human measure. There are procedures for correcting such problems in fundamentalism and all we had to do was follow them. I thought all fundamentalists were as charmed as I. I was mistaken. When angry ignorance reached for my children, it finally over-reached. The trap was sprung. While my body went right on dancing, my heart was still.
Grief and death are the same. We can make a pretense of distinguishing between them, but that's all it is, a pretense. We all face Good Fridays in our lives, but we enter the tomb for the Hebrew's indeterminate forty days. Dead always feels like forever.
I missed my Easter. I didn't see it until it was reflected back to me in the other's eyes. One pair forgave me everything. Others found comfort in my despairing prayers. A blue pair noticed I was unbalanced and tried to right things. A dark pair mistrusted my faith in him. A twinkly pair dismissed my thanks. A sharp pair of guniea pig eyes taught me where the burden lies. Five young pairs began to laugh at my jokes. I looked in His eyes, and that majestic pair sang "You make me feel like dancing, dancing the night away." When I finally looked in the mirror I surprised myself with Easter.
I haven't felt this happy since I was told I wasn't allowed to bend my knees. It seems impossible that my life should be so long in shadow. It is amazing that after despair should come such joy and faith. I guess it is right to insist on happiness at all costs. Fundamentally joy and hope do trump remorse and despair even when they are on the losing side, roughly speaking. Smoothly speaking, I could just say, "You can take the girl out of fundamentalism, but you can't take the fundamentals out of the girl." I wasn't wrong to dance along with Doug then and I'm not wrong to sing with him now.
Oh what a friend we have in Jesus
He leaves nothing to desire.
No more wandering, no more searching ever,
He completely satisfies.
And now it's so amazing, deep within my heart is endless pleasure
Bathing in the Sunlight of God's Love.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Miss Carson's Farm in Spring
This easy reader got out of hand. I fell in love with the characters, so I'm writing four stories about them, one for each season.
Miss Carson had a new farm. She was a new farmer. She used to be a teacher, but she wanted to try something new. She had an organic farm, and she needed help.
The farm was very big. Miss Carson wanted to grow many different things, and to raise some animals. She wanted to raise corn, peas, carrots, blueberries, strawberries, apples, and green beans. She had small herds of goats, sheep and pigs. She had flocks of chickens, ducks and geese. She even had some turkeys and a cow. Miss Carson wasn't sure she could take care of it all. She needed help.
Big Pedro had a big family. There was his wife, Young Rosa; his wife's mother, Old Rosa; his boys, Little Pedro, Chavo and Tito; and his girls, Rosita and Little Lupe. They lived in Mexico in the winter, but in the summer they traveled all over North America. They helped farmers to pick their corn, peas, carrots, blueberries, strawberries, apples and green beans. Big Pedro loved farms.
Miss Carson had an idea. She would travel South and find help. She would hire summer helpers in spring. It was a bold plan. She packed her truck and started driving.
Big Pedro was driving too. It was time to find summer work. He prayed for help in finding good work. He wanted good jobs for his family this summer. Sometimes he wished they could just stay at one farm all summer, but each farm grew one kind of crop. The harvest took a few weeks and then it was over.
Miss Carson pulled into the hiring fair. This was a new idea. She didn't know if anyone would like it. She didn't know if anyone would come up North to her farm so early in the year.
Big Pedro's family piled out of the RV. Everyone was tired of driving. Little Pedro and Rosita ran off to find old friends. Big Pedro and Young Rosa prayed with Old Rosa that God would help Big Pedro find good work. There were so many children in Big Pedro's family.
Miss Carson felt lost. She'd never hired helpers before. She didn't know what to do. She wandered around the hiring fair looking for help. Little Pedro was wandering too. Little Pedro couldn't find Juan. Juan was his best friend from last year. They had promised to meet.
Miss Carson turned a corner. Little Pedro turned the same corner. They bumped each other. Little Pedro fell down. Miss Carson felt bad. She picked him up. Little Pedro was fine, but Miss Carson took him back to Big Pedro. She wanted to be sure Little Pedro was OK.
Miss Carson liked Big Pedro. She liked Young Rosa and Old Rosa. She liked all the children. She wondered if they would like her. She wondered if they would come and help her with her new farm.
Young Rosa liked Miss Carson. She asked why someone from the North was at the hiring fair. Miss Carson explained her ideas. Old Rosa thought they were very good ideas. Miss Carson started to smile. Young Rosa smiled back. Now they had to wait for Big Pedro to come back.
Big Pedro was sad. He didn't like the work at this fair. He would have to drive to another fair. Little Pedro would miss Juan. Rosita would not like to drive some more. Young Rosa and Old Rosa would worry.
Big Pedro came back to the RV. Young Rosa was smiling. Old Rosa was smiling. The children were smiling. He felt sad. They would not like his news.
Miss Carson said hello. She explained her ideas to Big Pedro. She asked if he would like to come and help. She went back to her truck to let them talk about her idea. Miss Carson prayed in the truck. She wanted Big Pedro to say yes.
Big Pedro came to find Miss Carson's truck. "We will help you." he said. "We will help you with your new farm and your new ideas. We will come up North and spend the summer and fall at your farm. We will help you pick the corn, peas, carrots, blueberries, strawberries, apples and green beans."
They shook hands and said goodbye.
"Thank God." said Miss Carson.
"Thank you, God." said Big Pedro.
Miss Carson had a new farm. She was a new farmer. She used to be a teacher, but she wanted to try something new. She had an organic farm, and she needed help.
The farm was very big. Miss Carson wanted to grow many different things, and to raise some animals. She wanted to raise corn, peas, carrots, blueberries, strawberries, apples, and green beans. She had small herds of goats, sheep and pigs. She had flocks of chickens, ducks and geese. She even had some turkeys and a cow. Miss Carson wasn't sure she could take care of it all. She needed help.
Big Pedro had a big family. There was his wife, Young Rosa; his wife's mother, Old Rosa; his boys, Little Pedro, Chavo and Tito; and his girls, Rosita and Little Lupe. They lived in Mexico in the winter, but in the summer they traveled all over North America. They helped farmers to pick their corn, peas, carrots, blueberries, strawberries, apples and green beans. Big Pedro loved farms.
Miss Carson had an idea. She would travel South and find help. She would hire summer helpers in spring. It was a bold plan. She packed her truck and started driving.
Big Pedro was driving too. It was time to find summer work. He prayed for help in finding good work. He wanted good jobs for his family this summer. Sometimes he wished they could just stay at one farm all summer, but each farm grew one kind of crop. The harvest took a few weeks and then it was over.
Miss Carson pulled into the hiring fair. This was a new idea. She didn't know if anyone would like it. She didn't know if anyone would come up North to her farm so early in the year.
Big Pedro's family piled out of the RV. Everyone was tired of driving. Little Pedro and Rosita ran off to find old friends. Big Pedro and Young Rosa prayed with Old Rosa that God would help Big Pedro find good work. There were so many children in Big Pedro's family.
Miss Carson felt lost. She'd never hired helpers before. She didn't know what to do. She wandered around the hiring fair looking for help. Little Pedro was wandering too. Little Pedro couldn't find Juan. Juan was his best friend from last year. They had promised to meet.
Miss Carson turned a corner. Little Pedro turned the same corner. They bumped each other. Little Pedro fell down. Miss Carson felt bad. She picked him up. Little Pedro was fine, but Miss Carson took him back to Big Pedro. She wanted to be sure Little Pedro was OK.
Miss Carson liked Big Pedro. She liked Young Rosa and Old Rosa. She liked all the children. She wondered if they would like her. She wondered if they would come and help her with her new farm.
Young Rosa liked Miss Carson. She asked why someone from the North was at the hiring fair. Miss Carson explained her ideas. Old Rosa thought they were very good ideas. Miss Carson started to smile. Young Rosa smiled back. Now they had to wait for Big Pedro to come back.
Big Pedro was sad. He didn't like the work at this fair. He would have to drive to another fair. Little Pedro would miss Juan. Rosita would not like to drive some more. Young Rosa and Old Rosa would worry.
Big Pedro came back to the RV. Young Rosa was smiling. Old Rosa was smiling. The children were smiling. He felt sad. They would not like his news.
Miss Carson said hello. She explained her ideas to Big Pedro. She asked if he would like to come and help. She went back to her truck to let them talk about her idea. Miss Carson prayed in the truck. She wanted Big Pedro to say yes.
Big Pedro came to find Miss Carson's truck. "We will help you." he said. "We will help you with your new farm and your new ideas. We will come up North and spend the summer and fall at your farm. We will help you pick the corn, peas, carrots, blueberries, strawberries, apples and green beans."
They shook hands and said goodbye.
"Thank God." said Miss Carson.
"Thank you, God." said Big Pedro.
Blest Be to fathers
not even a thread
just your blessing on the head of an eel
ought else is voluntary
just your blessing on the head of an eel
ought else is voluntary
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Paper Training
A rambunctious puppy is gamboling untrained throughout the house
I must have paper everywhere
To catch the lemon drips
carrying secret messages that say
I am here.
I must have paper everywhere
To catch the lemon drips
carrying secret messages that say
I am here.
Like a Knight in the Forest
chugga chugga clunk
DADDY!
Hello, girls of guh, bubby.
Zip, Rustle, shuffle shuffle shuffle
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
I missed you, too.
Thud thud Thud thud, thud thud thud
Creak
Plunk, Clunk, Plunk
K-bing, whirr, shhhhhhhh
Wrinkled Tie
Wrinkled Shirt
Wrinkled Pants
Wrinkled Brow
Strong Hard Shoulders
Close Cropped Curls
Tender ears, mobile lips
machine oil and Old Spice
Head and Shoulders, Tide
Hey!
Busy Hands Busy Lips.
DADDY!
Hello, girls of guh, bubby.
Zip, Rustle, shuffle shuffle shuffle
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
I missed you, too.
Thud thud Thud thud, thud thud thud
Creak
Plunk, Clunk, Plunk
K-bing, whirr, shhhhhhhh
Wrinkled Tie
Wrinkled Shirt
Wrinkled Pants
Wrinkled Brow
Strong Hard Shoulders
Close Cropped Curls
Tender ears, mobile lips
machine oil and Old Spice
Head and Shoulders, Tide
Hey!
Busy Hands Busy Lips.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Retail Therapy
And now for something entirely different.
I like to remember my favorite things. Here's a few of them.
The Hoover Floormate We have wonderful tile floors whose beauty thrills me until they suck up all that spilled milk and refuse to release it. No longer a problem.
The Teaching Company I don't know what I ever did without them. I love their courses, if I were wealthy I'd just tell them to send me one of everything.
Sam's Club A family of seven eats a lot of food. I shop at Sam's every week. Ever wonder who could eat all that stuff? That would be us.
The Five Year Journal I have an allergy to photographs, not really, but they preserve the past too accurately. I like a little fuzz in my memories. This is my alternative way of recording my kids growth and our everyday life together. It's on sale too.
My LG Washer (and Dryer) I have a mountain of laundry that never seems to go away. This machine keeps us from running around naked. It does a lot of laundry in a little time. God bless Canada.
Our local library I've already waxed eloquent in my first post, but now you can see its glory for yourself.
Bob Evans They are a family restaraunt without peer. You get picture menus, wholesome food, and good prices. Bonus, the wait staff doesn't get snotty when a large family comes in.
The Infinity Journal I like continuity. Journaling used to mean I had to change journals just as it was beginning to feel comfortable. Now I shall never have to confide my thoughts in a stranger again.
Panera Bread Life is not all family dining. Sometimes you need a meal alone or with your lover, or a deserving child, or a dear friend. This is my place, but I'm willing to share.
There's a lot more, but I'm starting to feel better. Thanks for listening.
I like to remember my favorite things. Here's a few of them.
The Hoover Floormate We have wonderful tile floors whose beauty thrills me until they suck up all that spilled milk and refuse to release it. No longer a problem.
The Teaching Company I don't know what I ever did without them. I love their courses, if I were wealthy I'd just tell them to send me one of everything.
Sam's Club A family of seven eats a lot of food. I shop at Sam's every week. Ever wonder who could eat all that stuff? That would be us.
The Five Year Journal I have an allergy to photographs, not really, but they preserve the past too accurately. I like a little fuzz in my memories. This is my alternative way of recording my kids growth and our everyday life together. It's on sale too.
My LG Washer (and Dryer) I have a mountain of laundry that never seems to go away. This machine keeps us from running around naked. It does a lot of laundry in a little time. God bless Canada.
Our local library I've already waxed eloquent in my first post, but now you can see its glory for yourself.
Bob Evans They are a family restaraunt without peer. You get picture menus, wholesome food, and good prices. Bonus, the wait staff doesn't get snotty when a large family comes in.
The Infinity Journal I like continuity. Journaling used to mean I had to change journals just as it was beginning to feel comfortable. Now I shall never have to confide my thoughts in a stranger again.
Panera Bread Life is not all family dining. Sometimes you need a meal alone or with your lover, or a deserving child, or a dear friend. This is my place, but I'm willing to share.
There's a lot more, but I'm starting to feel better. Thanks for listening.
Monday, April 03, 2006
NOT DEAD YET!
I wanted to scream it at the ignorant asses who painted his portrait in reverent gray whilst others preen in living color. Still worse his image looms unframed but by the mists of legend while theirs' is the neat square of the annual.
How dare they?!
How dare they bury the living under presumed praise?
Today he is yet breathing, feeling, thinking, suffering, sinning in the shadow of fame's glare. Their breath is better spent in prayer at this the hour of their idol's greatest temptation. On this battle the angel's eyes are fixed. The rest was only circus with a taste of Bread, but this is Incarnation.
Let roll on the puppies' praise to some other artful clown, while saints and angels add their prayer to his that he might win the crown.
How dare they?!
How dare they bury the living under presumed praise?
Today he is yet breathing, feeling, thinking, suffering, sinning in the shadow of fame's glare. Their breath is better spent in prayer at this the hour of their idol's greatest temptation. On this battle the angel's eyes are fixed. The rest was only circus with a taste of Bread, but this is Incarnation.
Let roll on the puppies' praise to some other artful clown, while saints and angels add their prayer to his that he might win the crown.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Naked
The crimson sapling shocks me with its naked lust for Spring
I blush as though I sat in a field flaring red for all to see
Because I do.
I blush as though I sat in a field flaring red for all to see
Because I do.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
April Fool's Day
My grandmother-in-law has a joke she loves to tell about her husband's fondness for pulling pranks on April first. Their names are Jan, Kurt, and Harold--all born on New Year's Day. Now that's a woman's sense of humor.
Pranks are a charming part of being human. Granted, like every other good thing about humanity it can become an evil if it isn't carefully guided by love and good sense, but with those guardians in place there is nothing lovelier than a surprise. Even when the joke's on you and your own foibles have been exposed, the fact that these people still show up to be with you in spite of those foibles is a gift to embrace. To be loved in spite of yourself is the most gratifying of all satisified cravings.
Planning pranks is the best part. Of course, I love planning anything, but a good prank that lightens the hearts of all involved is especially pleasurable to lay out. Begin with the untouchable, the sacred sore spot no one is willing to deal with, but everyone is aggravated about. Something like Social Security only on a much smaller scale. Determine a course of action that will capitalize on the tension surrounding the untouchable, but not harm either of the groups at the ends of the rope. The idea is to simply sit them on their butts in the mud by unexpectedly cutting the rope. Surrounding the prank with opportunities for goodwill to be expressed by both sides is important as well. Both groups have to feel valued and understood.
Let's explore a practical example. Begin by getting Harry Reid to express a willingness to consider new ideas for suring up Social Security. Be certain to get a good picture of yourself in the Post with him when he does so. Follow up by getting Dennis Hastert to promise that he will do his utmost to guarantee Social Security benefits to all Americans for all time. Get him to do so on Meet the Press while you are also a guest. Then introduce a bill to Congress requiring that Americans be euthanized at the age of 65 unless they can provide for their own retirement. When all the war machines are just about cranked up to full pitch congratulate them on their strenuous efforts on behalf of all Americans and the Social Security program. And say the magic words, April Fool.
I'm sure our practical example has brought to light all the potential pit-falls that await the prankster. Pulling off a prank of that magnitude would require major political capital and extrordinary strength in your relationships with the Senate Minority Leader and the Speaker of the House, but if you had those things in your favor, think of the good it could do. Somewhere in your life you do possess that kind of political capital and strong relationships, and you could use today as an opportunity to help warring friends recover their good humor. Blame it on the spirit of Puck that possesses April Fool's Day.
Pranks are a charming part of being human. Granted, like every other good thing about humanity it can become an evil if it isn't carefully guided by love and good sense, but with those guardians in place there is nothing lovelier than a surprise. Even when the joke's on you and your own foibles have been exposed, the fact that these people still show up to be with you in spite of those foibles is a gift to embrace. To be loved in spite of yourself is the most gratifying of all satisified cravings.
Planning pranks is the best part. Of course, I love planning anything, but a good prank that lightens the hearts of all involved is especially pleasurable to lay out. Begin with the untouchable, the sacred sore spot no one is willing to deal with, but everyone is aggravated about. Something like Social Security only on a much smaller scale. Determine a course of action that will capitalize on the tension surrounding the untouchable, but not harm either of the groups at the ends of the rope. The idea is to simply sit them on their butts in the mud by unexpectedly cutting the rope. Surrounding the prank with opportunities for goodwill to be expressed by both sides is important as well. Both groups have to feel valued and understood.
Let's explore a practical example. Begin by getting Harry Reid to express a willingness to consider new ideas for suring up Social Security. Be certain to get a good picture of yourself in the Post with him when he does so. Follow up by getting Dennis Hastert to promise that he will do his utmost to guarantee Social Security benefits to all Americans for all time. Get him to do so on Meet the Press while you are also a guest. Then introduce a bill to Congress requiring that Americans be euthanized at the age of 65 unless they can provide for their own retirement. When all the war machines are just about cranked up to full pitch congratulate them on their strenuous efforts on behalf of all Americans and the Social Security program. And say the magic words, April Fool.
I'm sure our practical example has brought to light all the potential pit-falls that await the prankster. Pulling off a prank of that magnitude would require major political capital and extrordinary strength in your relationships with the Senate Minority Leader and the Speaker of the House, but if you had those things in your favor, think of the good it could do. Somewhere in your life you do possess that kind of political capital and strong relationships, and you could use today as an opportunity to help warring friends recover their good humor. Blame it on the spirit of Puck that possesses April Fool's Day.
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