Day Eight: Progress Report
There is room to work at the desk now. This is a good beginning. Read more…
Day Seven: Harvest Dinner
Bingo and bears. We laughed, ate delicious food, and sat in community with others at the annual Harvest Dinner. I count myself fortunate to have stumbled into this church so far from home and family. Here we love and are loved. We care for each other in our brokenness and reach out to care for those who may not be a part of our congregation, but are a part of our world. And that is enough. Grace and peace to you and yours and to all those who are sharing this world.
Day Six: Under the Glacier
Pastor Jón: When I discovered that history is a fable, and a poor one at that, I went looking for a better fable, and found theology.
This line ends Chapter 16. The next chapter begins, We seem to have strayed into philosophy unintentionally…
It has taken me longer than expected to read even this far into the book. I am about a third of the way through and have no urgency to finish and no desire to set it aside. It is a book to be read in small bites.
I like the translation, but have no real way of knowing if it’s a good one. The English sentences are pleasant yet still feel slightly off. I want to know which Icelandic word was used for “strayed” and why the translator chose that over “wandered” or “moved into”. I want to know if the adjectives used to describe the glacier are bold enough or crisp enough or light enough. There isn’t enough time for me to learn all of the languages.
Day Five: Smallish Bears in the Wild
At the dinner table tonight, the smallest smallish bear lamented, “None of my parents understand what it’s like! They’re all the oldest and they don’t know what it’s like to be the youngest!”
A similar complaint to one of my own childhood, but in reverse. My parents were each the youngest and had no ears for my tirades about the annoying behavior of my sister. They seemed more amused at her tormenting me than anything else.
I am not much more sympathetic towards Lady Bug. “I know enough to know the youngest is obnoxious!” My laugh showed I was mostly teasing, I hope.
“I am NOT obnoxious,” she declared, thumping her mug onto the table.
“Then what are you?” Lima Bean’s older sister mothering face was in full effect.
“I am the comic relief.”
Day Four: Couch Safari
Seen from my corner of the couch tonight – the rare and reclusive hearth giraffe. It can stay because it appears willing to help around the house.
Although it also appears to be easily distracted.
Day Three: Treasures?
There is a file in the desk labeled Books & Reading Lists. What a rabbit hole! What were you reading in the summer of 1996? I was living with my grandparents and had no job other than a daily walk to the library and countless hours to read.
There are pages and pages of lists. Books I read, books I meant to read, Pulitzer winners in order by year, names of other interesting literary awards. A library wish list in many colors of ink.
What do I do with these? I am not using them, but they also don’t take up much space. I still make lists of what I’ve read, but now it is more likely to be in a journal and not on looseleaf or Franklin-Covey note sheets. Looking over them makes me smile. There are still so many books I haven’t read!
The rest of this drawer – ugh! This does not bring me joy. The folders are ugly and I only open the drawer when we’ve recently moved. I was happy to discover the Letters to Answer folder was empty, but not surprised. There’s a basket on the desk for that now.
What to save and what to toss. This is not a new dilemma. For now, yes, the reading lists can stay, but the drawer will be reclaimed for other purposes.
Maybe boxes of photographs? I seem to have piles of those.
Day Two: Meditation 101
On the mornings when the smallish bears are at their papa’s house, my morning routine is less rushed. Today was one of those mornings. I slept a little later, moved a little slower. It is easier (usually) to get one Magic Princess out of the house on schedule than to corral two bears and said princess.
Having that little bit of extra time (and extra quiet) reminded me that I’d been meaning to spend some moments in stillness. Just a few minutes of intentional being. As luck would have it, I had also noticed a guided meditation series beginning this week. Perfect!
I found the website and created my account. The first day’s meditation was just over twenty minutes long. Great! I found my ear buds and prepared for my journey toward mindfulness. My immediate next thought? What can I do for twenty minutes while I’m meditating? Ooh! I can empty and refill the dishwasher and probably wash the dishes in the sink too…
Remind me again how meditation is supposed to work?
Day One: Beginnings
This space is my November project. This space physically at the desk and this space virtually where I write. A little bit every day. Clearing space, letting go, making new beauty. Nesting before the snow is deep. Shining a light while the nights lengthen. Working towards habit and discipline. Today is the first day.
Back to School
Lima Bean and I sit at the dining room table. She does and does not want help, does and does not want me to be there. We have a plan. I sit and don’t speak. She works. She grumbles and sighs and tells me random things about her day. I wait. She says, “Check this,” and shoves the notebook towards me.
Her writing is fine and light. My eyes are not as young as hers. I squint and check and copy and work it out on my own, black ink bright and bold across whatever scrap paper is close at hand.
She forgets to distribute, I forget to change a sign. We both remember units.
I push the notebook back. “Good.” Or sometimes, “Bad math! Try again. Check the distribution.”
Sometimes she stops herself before she starts. “Ugh. This is stupid. What am I supposed to do?”
My answer is always the same. “What do you know? Write down what you know. Start from there.”
I am not alone in this helping. Tonight it is just me, but I am blessed with the brightest, mathiest Auntie Brigade a girl could ask for. At least three bona fide math majors. At least one educator. I am so very thankful.
Two days down. Many more to go.
Privilege
My street is noisy in the warmer months. Two houses in particular rotate residents who let me experience street yelling and public drunkenness unlike anything I saw growing up. On a military base drunkenness is behind closed doors, at initiations, at picnics maybe, but even there I don’t recall the shouting or displays that happen where I am now.
There were no women on our court who staggered on the sidewalk telling all how they got drunk off of one and a half nips of 101. One. And. A. Half. She repeats it several times in case we hadn’t heard.
Earlier in the week this woman spent a quarter of an hour declaring her sexual preferences. If I wanted to set her up with someone, I now know exactly the type of man she is seeking.
We almost know each other. On a recent trip to the Emergency Department, she was there apologizing to another woman for having an affair with her husband. “Am I supposed to pretend that I don’t know you?” She takes a seat closer to her unwelcoming audience. The entire room pretends not to listen. We are all listening.
She is crying now. “He came to me, you know,” she continues as if this information will somehow be comforting. “He brought vodka and well, you know, that’s my drink. That’s. My. Drink.” She repeats everything. I know now this is her way. “I had my chip. I was so proud of that chip. My one day chip.”
I know alcoholism is a horrible combination of choices and illness. My heart hurts for her. I become less charitable when I notice she can flip off the tears as if they were on a switch. When the other woman is called back it is all laughter and smiles. Discussions of parties and people they know.
My neighborhood is in a precarious spot. Shootings are more frequent now than four years ago, but are not random. I can walk at night if The Kettle Slayer is with me.
As I write, the woman is yelling that she is leaving. Going to someone else’s house. She has told all her friends on the porch, the people across the street on their porches, her housemates and me, inside my upstairs apartment in the house next door. She has told us all five times. Some of us pretend not to listen. We are all listening.
My landlord wants to sell this house. Am I interested? He asks from time to time. This week my mortgage loan was approved. My hope is to not stay in this house. To move away from this street with the public drug use and yelling and drunkenness. To live on a street where the bears and I can walk safely at any time. A street where people keep their problems shut up tight in their houses where they belong. Where did I learn these things?
It is easy to leave here. I have the means and the desire. I didn’t do anything particularly special to obtain those things. My field was chosen almost completely at random when I was fourteen. Medical language was fascinating to me and I had read a snippet of career advice that suggested choosing a language you will be able to use every day without tiring of it. Only much later did I realize that health care jobs were in almost every town and spanned all skill and education levels. A happy accident.
My mother used to tell us that you can’t make a school system better by taking good parents out of it. Is it any more right to walk away from a neighborhood? What makes me assume that I’m the good here? This is on my mind today.
Naming Mountains 