Category — Words for thought

In honour of my friend Julia(-the-Chemist)’s wedding her beloved Bryan(-the-Geographer) this afternoon, I’d like to share a quote about marriage. Congratulations to the beautiful couple!

“If two stand shoulder to shoulder against the gods,
Happy together, the gods themselves are helpless
Against them while they stand so.”

- Maxwell Anderson

God’s not dead
because I thought him/her so
like the holocaust nay-sayers
the animated moon walkers stabbing two inch toothpicks into three mile styrofoam craters unlikely green

God’s not dead
because we’ve lost some children
now witness to blinking nail bed growing in woman womb
delivering half-way placentas nine pound eleven ounce spirits through openings that for thirty years were smaller than bar soap bent to its circumference
making all labia-living believers

God’s not dead
because city does not become her/him
forgetting book promises cambodian valleys cave to hazel life
seven year pupils erasing invisibility lip-spoken not theirs
up climbing through arm of unlikely stranger
otherworldly kindness our universal language

:::

Part of Imperfect Prose Thursdays

“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature.”

- Helen Keller

“In the biggest sense, justice is when all God’s creatures receive what is due them and contribute out of their uniqueness to our common existence. We are called to do justice in every sphere of our lives: how I love and educate my daughters, collaborate with my colleagues, interact with neighbors.”

- Gideon Strauss, CEO of the Center for Public Justice (CPJ) in Washington, D.C., and editor of Comment

“Late have I loved you, O Beauty, so ancient and so new, late have I loved you. For behold you were within me, and I outside; and I sought you outside and in my unloveliness fell upon those lovely things which you have made. You were with me, and I was not with you. I was kept from you by those things, yet had they not been in you, they would not have been at all. You called and cried to me to break open my deafness and you sent forth your beams and you shone upon me and chased away my blindness…”

- St. Augustine, City of God

::::

These words open chapter 43 of Mary Karr’s Lit, which I highly recommend. Thanks to Alissa for tipping me off.

“In the beginning was God,
Today is God,
Tomorrow will be God.
Who can make an image of God?
He has no body.
He is the word which comes out of your mouth.
That word! It is nor more,
It is past, and still lives!
So is God.”

(Pygmy)

Desmond Tutu
An African Prayer Book

:: This post appears on the After Hours blog today. 

Do one thing every day that scares you. - Eleanor Roosevelt, US diplomat & reformer (1884 – 1962)

It’s a quote I’ve been quick to recite but slow to practice. Except for last night when I stepped up to the microphone for the very first time and read some of my poetry aloud to a room of perfect strangers. Some of them fairly famous strangers. 

I was sure I read too fast. I stood at the podium wishing I’d edited just a little bit more. I fumbled over a line. My palms were sweaty.

I felt utterly alive. 

I sat down. Diane Tucker stood up. Her words flew. Lines: weighty, pressing, playful. Not one of them hitting the floor. It made me want to get up a hundred times more so I could read like her. One day. 

When was the last time you chose to do something that scared you?

“i hadn’t seen them for the snow… hadn’t seen their yellow-petal-heads peering up from dirt, for the white wasteland. winter had blanketed mystery over these flowers. i’d peered out my window countless days seeing nothing but white, stretched far like linen on the line, the sky, gray-lint cloud fleece.

but today, sun broke free from cloud, melted winter away with a splash of child’s boot in puddle and there, leaping up from the ground like a chorus of hallelujahs, the crocus. spring’s national anthem.

“the Waste Land is the place where God transforms you into the person who can do your Dream.”

this, The Dream Giver book tells me. and i think upon my life, upon its seasons of white winters and crocus-springs, think upon the mystery of God blanketing my dreams until just the right moment when the sun breaks through and melts away the wasteland, revealing a triumphant choir of flowers. dreams, blooming, just below the snow. and to think, they would not have been warm enough to grow without that snow. to think, they would have died in winter’s chill if snow had not fluffed white about their roots.

my dreams need the wasteland. the wasteland keeps them growing. and in due time, spring will come. with a chorus of hallelujahs.”

- Emily Wierenga. To read more of Emily’s words visit her at Canvas Child, her daily blog.

“What if the mightiest word is love?”

- Elizabeth Alexander, Praise Song for the Day

Truly, my world feels small. I wake and my life, from dawn until dusk, is ordered by a 19 pound toddler. We sit on the floor. We try new foods. We tear books off shelves. We sing, play the piano, take walks, swing, babble.

Then there are moments I step out. I get my act together, cross the street and meet women, mothers, new friends. One, a forensic biologist with the RCMP. Another, a casting director. Still another, the wife of an SFU professor, recently moved from San Fransisco. These are interesting, beautiful women who, along with me, have given up their ‘day jobs’ to nurse babies on hard wood chairs in the centre of Starbucks as the world speeds by.

It’s hard to give up. It’s hard to let the e-mails stack up for days, some for weeks, as I retire at 8pm, my body a sack of worn out bones. It’s hard to pass up opportunities, quit jobs. I don’t read blogs. I scan newspapers. I get by on CBC Radio newscasts as Madeleine and I spend the day. It’s enough for now. My life demands focus. 

I am surrendering. 

It’s my theme at present: Surrender. I recently read a book titled Surrendering to Motherhood, a gift from my friend Julia that spoke right to my core. “I realized I was working not for dollars but out of ego and a need to create,” author Iris Krasnow writes. It seems I had lurched back into the saddle for the same reasons and the stress of mothering a 6-month old, keeping a home, being a wife and working on a variety of projects was quickly killing any creative energy I had left.

A glimpse into my journal tells the story best:

Father, please help me unravel. I am wound so tight. Soiled laundry, dishes, clothes demanding mending. Unwritten stories, e-mails, notes to prepare. Waiting friends, family, husband, baby… clamouring at my skin.

You win.

I surrender all into your open arms. Wash, wash, wash over me like the liquid wind of ferry deck. Spill, spill like milk, the scent of honey, washing away my worry.

It is too much for me. I need to fall open, fall out of this rhythm, this frenetic pace.

I am mother, wife, daughter, friend. Then writer, teacher, blogger, business owner.

I fail Madeleine when I spill myself like an open grave. Smiling through fatigue, tears stored on shelves for moments like these.

They are a city wall. Built up, built up. Revealed first to my mother’s eyes, ears, love. 

“I am worried about you.”

(”Heed her words,” I hear you say.)

“Cut everything out. Say no. Until you have got her on a schedule and sleeping well in the night.”

At first I push back, then I breathe out. “Yes, Mom.” And the wave pulls back…

Yes. May that be my first response, Friend. Rather than no, no, no. I don’t know better. (Oh God, do I ever not.)

Candle, key and canvas feel dead to me. Oh spirit, come. Damn you assignments, damn you ego. For what is your gain?

Strip it away. Strip it away. Strip it away. 

My life leaves me little time for writing. I have an inquisitive, social child who demands all of me in her waking moments. When I have time I want to create: pen poetry, paint, write stories — the website for the Seeking Eve (inspirational Christian women) project is almost complete and I want to concentrate my energy there. I’ll also still be blogging weekly at After Hours. 

What does that mean for this little old blog? I hope to share pictures and poetry as life unfolds, sometimes writing, though I hope to spend more and more of my time on published work.

The few of you who read here: thank you! I love being able to share my life with you in this writer-ly way. I hope you keep reading and I promise to keep you up-to-date on new projects, and our ambling life.  

I’d like to leave you with another quote from Henri Nouwen, sent to me this week by my husband (he’s been doing that a lot lately!) 

“Our Unique Call

So many terrible things happen every day that we start wondering whether the few things we do ourselves make any sense. When people are starving only a few thousand miles away, when wars are raging close to our borders, when countless people in our own cities have no homes to live in, our own activities look futile. Such considerations, however, can paralyse us and depress us.

Here the word call becomes important. We are not called to save the world, solve all problems, and help all people. But we each have our own unique call, in our families, in our work, in our world. We have to keep asking God to help us see clearly what our call is and to give us the strength to live out that call with trust. Then we will discover that our faithfulness to a small task is the most healing response to the illnesses of our time.”

Here’s to seeing our call clearly and living with the trust necessary to see it through.