Today I don't really want to get out of bed and clean the house, shop for groceries (or Christmas gifts or paints). Today I don't really want to do homework, paint a "set-up of unusual objects", write lesson plans, or write out bills. Today I just want to listen to Emmylou and Johnny Cash. Today I just want to contemplate the sun shining through the windows and feel it warm my face and hands. Today I just want to close my eyes and, not sleep, but let them truly rest. Today I want to imagine that his love is mine (or let the realization that it's not fall around me like this year's leaves, without others' words and thoughts and opinions on the matter at heart).
Today I want to be like we used to. Today I want to remember and today I want to forget. Today I want to hear your voice saying those things you've said before, but this time in honest truth. Today I want to be separate from the Earth, another body entirely, spinning, revolving, rotating on my own in a constellar dance with the other galaxies and planets and stars. Today I want to be free, untied, unkempt and wild. Today I want to be the only one or one, quietly shining, among a million. Today I want to be lost and found and sad and happy and together and lonely and all the things that have escaped me because I have been so busy doing. Today I want to be on a hill or a mountain, by a stream. Today I want to be a part of the earth, the soil, the ocean, the wind. Today I want to be the breeze that moves the trees to dance or sing. Today I want to be aware of where I am in the One in Whom I live and move and have my being. Today I want to be still and know, to feel the weight of my place with the Trinity, to know that I am small...and large, sinful and sainted. Today I want to be loved and despised, to be the contradiciton of things (aren't we all?) that make me who I am, and still the apple of Someone's eye.
Today I don't want to do. Today I just want to be...
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Love Letters
After several months of phone calls, revisions, and going back and forth between the publisher and me, my first published book is available. Though it is a simple ABC book, every page an "I love you" from a parent to a child, I am quite excited that it is bound and there are multiple copies and it has its own ISBN#!!!! And also that people are actually buying it!!!Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Toujours en Attente
Waiting...
for some hope to spark,
to break free,
to burst into life.
Waiting for your voice,
and those words,
and your hands,
and that touch...
waiting for a fullness I cannot describe.
Always waiting...
for some hope to spark,
to break free,
to burst into life.
Waiting for your voice,
and those words,
and your hands,
and that touch...
waiting for a fullness I cannot describe.
Always waiting...
Wall of Mirrors
What wall of mirrors will we use to look at ourselves now--
broken, bending, borrowed?
We distort ourselves until even we
don't know who we are.
Then, as if grace had poured itself on us,
we rise out of chaos, out of noise
into realization,
into hope.
And all the laughter that has beat itself so long
against the confines of our bound-up souls,
now lifts its wings to fly.
broken, bending, borrowed?
We distort ourselves until even we
don't know who we are.
Then, as if grace had poured itself on us,
we rise out of chaos, out of noise
into realization,
into hope.
And all the laughter that has beat itself so long
against the confines of our bound-up souls,
now lifts its wings to fly.
Love Crashing Down
With a certain strength
I will rise out of this chaos,
I will rise out of this noise,
where you left me for dead
in the wake of your love crashing down,
the weight of your love crashing down.
I will rise out of this chaos,
I will rise out of this noise,
where you left me for dead
in the wake of your love crashing down,
the weight of your love crashing down.
Sweet Belinda
The streets are full of the flurry of color and spices. Oranges and reds billowing through the air like flames dancing, the scent of cardamom and curry intoxicating us as we pass through them. The threatening word—“Industry”—hangs in the air like a dark cloud around a mountain. It looms over us with the threat of disrupting all that we know here. But we will not let it fade the colors of our festival or make our spirits cold, not today at least. The music stirs and we run, my friends and I, excitedly through the streets of our home as vendors set up their little shops, creating a path before us. We stop to look at the hand-crafted treasures glistening like all the jewels of India, hanging delicately around us like so many fragile eggs. Though beautiful, they are not made for loving; they are made to look at, souvenirs for the tourists, decorations in homes. If I were to hold them, they would shatter or break in the same way we scatter away with laughter and longing.
We have heard stories of white dolls; a certain richness in the ivory skin and pink cheeks. Dolls made of soft cotton with hair like golden sun and silk. Like our festivals, they are something bright and beautiful, something to feel and touch, hold and smell. We talk about the white dolls as if they would somehow dispel all the wrong with our world. We are interrupted from our daydreams as a vendor calls us over and happily gives us a taste of samosa. We happily accept. The taste is still in my mouth as I walk home. I remember that my father is to return today. He is there waiting when I walk through the door.
“Ah, bheta!” His voice booms, mellow and deep, a familiar sound that I at once revere and love. Today it is more love than reverence. He laughs as I run toward him and swings me up to his lap. “How have you been?” he really means “Have you been behaving yourself?”.
“Very good.” I answer. Truthfully.
I notice a box on the table beside him—white with pink ribbon. “This is for you.” He hands the box to me, excitement sparking in his eyes. I open it carefully and there inside is a doll—a white doll with pink cheeks and golden hair. She is beautiful on her own. She is beautiful because I can love her. She is something real and magical all at once. “So you like her then?” A huge smile has stretched itself across my father’s face.
“Very much! Oh, thank you Papa!” I feel like words have been taken from me because I am so overjoyed.
My mother calls us to dinner. We all eat and talk of our day. We are happy when we talk about the festival and more somber when we discuss the changes of our country.
“We have much to make this into an even prouder place.” The adults are going on about political things, matters of “importance”.
I am beside myself the whole meal. I think about my doll, about showing her to my friends. I think about how much I have, what a proud place my heart is right now—whatever is happening outside its boundaries, I feel that there is enough joy in it to fuel the world.
Not too much later that night, after we have finished with the things of the day, as I am lying down in my bed, I take my doll in my arms and whisper in her ear “Sweet dreams, Belinda.”
We have heard stories of white dolls; a certain richness in the ivory skin and pink cheeks. Dolls made of soft cotton with hair like golden sun and silk. Like our festivals, they are something bright and beautiful, something to feel and touch, hold and smell. We talk about the white dolls as if they would somehow dispel all the wrong with our world. We are interrupted from our daydreams as a vendor calls us over and happily gives us a taste of samosa. We happily accept. The taste is still in my mouth as I walk home. I remember that my father is to return today. He is there waiting when I walk through the door.
“Ah, bheta!” His voice booms, mellow and deep, a familiar sound that I at once revere and love. Today it is more love than reverence. He laughs as I run toward him and swings me up to his lap. “How have you been?” he really means “Have you been behaving yourself?”.
“Very good.” I answer. Truthfully.
I notice a box on the table beside him—white with pink ribbon. “This is for you.” He hands the box to me, excitement sparking in his eyes. I open it carefully and there inside is a doll—a white doll with pink cheeks and golden hair. She is beautiful on her own. She is beautiful because I can love her. She is something real and magical all at once. “So you like her then?” A huge smile has stretched itself across my father’s face.
“Very much! Oh, thank you Papa!” I feel like words have been taken from me because I am so overjoyed.
My mother calls us to dinner. We all eat and talk of our day. We are happy when we talk about the festival and more somber when we discuss the changes of our country.
“We have much to make this into an even prouder place.” The adults are going on about political things, matters of “importance”.
I am beside myself the whole meal. I think about my doll, about showing her to my friends. I think about how much I have, what a proud place my heart is right now—whatever is happening outside its boundaries, I feel that there is enough joy in it to fuel the world.
Not too much later that night, after we have finished with the things of the day, as I am lying down in my bed, I take my doll in my arms and whisper in her ear “Sweet dreams, Belinda.”
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Dear Shulamite
I fear, dear Shulamite,
that I have awakened love
before it so desired.
(Song of Songs 2:7; 3:5; 8:4)
that I have awakened love
before it so desired.
(Song of Songs 2:7; 3:5; 8:4)
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