Michael and His Boss

Michael and His Boss

Michael paced and fidgeted, waiting, as usual, to get his chance to give advice to the boss. And the boss needed advice, because the whole world was going to hell. In fact, a big part of the world was in hell already.  Why couldn’t he see that?

The big old wooden door opened, and Michael put on his game face. Not too aggressive…the boss didn’t like that. Not too…whatever! Michael shrugged his shoulders, admitting to himself, if no one else, that he had not gotten it right yet. Not the right combination of words and tone and emotion to move the guy to act like Michael knew he should. Knew he HAD to.

“Michael! How are you?” he said, coming forward to give Michael that hug that Michael always had to brace himself for. Not because he didn’t like the hug, but because it always drew him off- sides. Made him lose his focus and intent. 

“Fine, fine. And you?” Michael drew back from the hug, looking into his boss’ eyes to see what mood he might be in today. Bummer. He looked happy. The guy was delusional.

“I am good. And glad to hear you are well. What can I do for you, Michael?”

As if he didn’t know. As if Michael had not been pleading for the same thing now for way too long.  Michael shook his head, just a tiny shake. Took a deep breath. Took a chance on contact and put his hand on his boss’ forearm for emphasis.

“They are at it again. Only this time, I think is worse than ever. I can’t do anything with them, they surely won’t listen to me. You’re going to have to do something. They will listen to you if you go down there.” Michael went for the combo effect…sincere, urgent but not pushy.

“I know. You know, it breaks my heart. I have tried everything I can think of. Except…”

Michael interrupted, “You haven’t tried everything. You haven’t just gone down there and talked to them yourself. Unless you count that whole burning bush thing. Which, wasn’t quite the same thing as just showing up, you have to admit.”

His boss smiled, the memory settling on him. He chuckled. “Well, maybe not the exact right thing, but it seemed like a good idea back then. But anyway, this morn…”

Michael burst in again, “You keep sending people to tell them. It isn’t working! They either kill them or ignore them, or both! You have to do it yourself” Michael was warming to his subject. His pupils were dilated with ferver, and the hand on his boss’ arm was squeezing in passionate appeal.

His boss looked down at the gripping fingers and looked back into Michaels’ eyes. Michael let go with sudden frustration, stepping back and shaking his head. This was going to end like every other meeting. Nothing. Big fat nothing. He started to turn away.

“Michael, listen for a minute,” it wasn’t a request, “I am trying to tell you something. I have an idea, and I think you will like it. I think it might work.”

Michael stopped breathing. Progress. Something new. Something besides the same old sending of some poor guy who ends up dead, despised by the very people he trying to reach.

“What…what…” Michael leaned a little toward his boss, a little afraid to get up too much hope.

“I’ve decided to go down there myself. “

Michael jumped up, pumping his fist and doing a little jig. “I knew it! I knew you would fix it! You love them too much to let them keep on killing each other! I knew you would fix it!”

His boss was grinning now, watching Michael’s joyful reaction. He waited a minute for Michael to do a little shadow boxing of the enemy.

“Take that, evil! Take that, death! Take that you sorry excuse for human misery maker!” Michael kept it up for a minute, then curiosity sunk in.

“Where will you appear first? That could be a huge decision, you know. You have to get the powerful behind you first. Wait…what am thinking…you would have to if you were a human, but since you are God, once you go down there as yourself, the whole entire human race will fall on their knees before you!”

His boss nodded, pausing, “That’s just the thing, Michael. That is the very reason I can’t do it the way you are thinking. We’ve been over this a hundred times.”

Michael’s face fell. What was the catch? He turned and started pacing, reciting in a terse voice,

“You made them to be free. You can’t manipulate them. They have to live free from strings and obligation to you or they can’t be truly themselves. Yadda yadda yadda…”

His boss ignored this last disrespectful tirade.

“That is right, Michael. That never changes. If I love them, I am bound by all the laws of every moral code ever imagined to give them their freedom.”

“Well, what moral code do they live by, for crying out loud? How can you make it worse by stopping them from making such a dung heap of themselves and all of earth?” Michael was so deeply disappointed he forgot that there was still a plan that had not been tried before.

His boss sat down, motioning to the other easy chair beside him. “Michael. Sit. I am sorry it can’t be done your way. But I do have an idea. And I think it just might work. Sit here. I feel how much you love them. How much you grieve for them. You have to believe me when I tell you I feel those things as keenly as you.”

Michael sat, his arms on his knees, his head hanging. He let out a sigh, and raised his eyes to the face of this boss who he did love so much.

“I’m going down there. But they will think I’m a real human. I’ll live like they do, and the hope is that I’ll get the chance to teach them how to love each other. And themselves.”

“So…where will you appear first?”

“Well, if I’m going to do it right, I’m going to do the whole thing. I’ll be born, like them.”

“You have got to be kidding me? You, a baby? You will be so at their mercy, you’ll never make it to be old enough to teach them anything!” Michael let out another sigh. He loved his boss, but this was a bad idea.

“No, I think it will work. I have the mother picked out. She’s good. And the father is a good man. I’ll do the whole thing. I’ll be born, I’ll grow up, I’ll love my family. I’ll gather some followers and spread the news that love is for everyone. That no one is alone. That no life, and no death is beyond me.”

“So, you picked a queen? Who is it?”

“Well, not a queen. I picked a Jewish girl. Her name is Mary. You know, the Jews have messed up a lot, but they keep trying, and that’s where I want to go. Remember David? He has a descendent named Joseph who is engaged to Mary. It’s the perfect family.”

“Now I know you are kidding me! They are dirt poor! You will be lucky to get enough to eat, much less gain any influence at all with society!”

“That’s kind of my point, Michael. I want to do it the hardest way, so that there aren’t any people anywhere, ever, for the rest of time who think they aren’t good enough to live in love.”

Michael slowly shook his head. “I don’t think you know what you’re in for. I’ve been down there. It isn’t what you think. There is not much hope, and there isn’t much love either. And for sure, they have forgotten their promises to you.”

His boss nodded just as slowly, “ I do know, Michael. But I have not forgotten mine to them.”

The look on his boss’ face left no room for argument. In fact, the extreme fondness he felt for his creation shone on his face like a light. Michael felt a little bubble of hope under his breast bone for the first time in a very long time. This was crazy, but maybe crazy was just the right thing for this mess that was the human condition.

“Ok. So, let’s say you are going to go down there and show them how to love each other. Then what?”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to see what they do with it. And with me.” He put his hand on Michael’s arm. “And I’m going to need your help. I know I said it the human way, but we’ll add just a touch of your ideas. See, we gotta get Mary on board, give the word to Joseph that he doesn’t need to worry, maybe tell some shepherds, and…let’s put a big star in the sky ahead of time to kind of point the way.”

“So, a star over Jerusalem?”

“Well, no. I’m going to be born in Bethlehem. Because that’s where David came from, and I’m going to do my darndest to fulfill some of the Hebrew prophecy. To give them hope. And to help them know who I am.”

Michael chuckled. “You have this all figured out. OK, we’ll try it your way. And pray. A lot!”

His boss grinned from ear to ear. “I knew I could count on you. Now, let’s get this thing rolling!”

 .

Little Feathers: Fear's Equal

Little Feathers: Fear's Equal: Fear keeps us from falling in the gorge. It keeps us from driving too fast (at least, it should). Fear keeps us aware of our mortality so th...

Fear's Equal

Fear keeps us from falling in the gorge. It keeps us from driving too fast (at least, it should). Fear keeps us aware of our mortality so that we can guard and treasure our bodies. That's the good fear.

Fear can also steal the joy of the day. Fear of getting cancer, fear of losing our worldly possessions, fear of losing our personal freedom, power, and discernment (whether to disease or politics), fear of losing people we love. But, no matter how we employ our knowledge and what wisdom we've garnered about the futility of worrying, fear can be the power over us that takes what time we've got and smashes is into a small thing that crumples under the enormity of horrible possibilities.

Which brings me to the gift I got last night. Up here in the mountains of New Mexico, far from the lights of cities or towns, the sky is a constant feast for the soul. And last night, before the moon rose, the stars were so bright and so close, they felt personal. Bob and I sat outside and could not stop staring at them. Blue ones, red ones, twinkling ones, steadily burning bright ones ( I do know they aren't all stars, but that's the name I give them). We had not been outside long when we both saw a huge shooting star. It streaked across the sky with a tail of light that was gone in a second. But it lingered in my heart the longest time. It didn't really make me want to see more so much as it made me want to remember it. Because it was fear's equal.

The cosmos is not merely humbling. For me, with the gift of those stars still shining in my mind this morning, the cosmos is liberating. Yes, we are microscopic in comparison. But we are not inconsequential. This gift of the sky, the heavens, the universe and beyond, this is proof that all will be well. No matter what happens to the stock market or the trade war or climate change, humans cannot do away with this vastness.

Part of my armor against the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' (thanks, Will, that phrase has been in my mind since I first heard it as a child), part of my defense against the fear that steals, is this sky. Because I see the fingerprints of a creator whose passion for creating keeps my heart beating. Keeps me waking up knowing that love is the author of the stars, and that love is here now. A thing of hope, waiting to be borne and shared by the created.

I was wrong when I titled this blog. Because fear is not the equal of hope. Not when I remember the ancient truth, that I was created to love and be loved. The one who made the stars and the cells of my heart is here now. Saying, fear not.

Of Tricycles and Home

There's a poem called The World's Greatest Tricycle Rider, by C.K. Williams. The poem tells of a wildman inside, one who rides with no hands, upside, fearless. But the wildman is growing older, and the poet worries that because he has not shared his wisdom with the rider inside, the poor wildman is doomed to ride again and again around the same block.

Growing older is accompanied by so many clichés, it's comical. Is there any new thought under the sun about the losses of aging? When I read this poem for the first time this last week, it caused little lights in my brain to spark some new ideas. New to me, at any rate. 

What if clinging to the ways I've always been, the abilities I've always had, is actually holding me back from the progress I can make at this time in my life? What if grieving the loss of strength keeps me from trying something new that makes better use of my current state? What if I'm actually better at things I've not tried than at riding the tricycle around and around the block, my feet overshooting the pedals? And, what if there is great joy to be found in trying the new, joy that would mitigate the sense of loss?

They say (don't you love "them") you can't go home again. I understand that it is because time has changed us, even if time has skipped over the actual physical place we grew up. And time has taken away people we love who inhabited our home with us. So, what if we free ourselves from the need to do the impossible, and open our hearts to the home around us? What if we look for ways to make this older body our home, make this group of people our home?

This process of setting the child inside free to love this place and time is a conscious decision. It must be a journey of the spirit that makes this time of life as precious, as productive, as important to our souls as our youth. In a society that idolizes youth, it can seem counterintuitive. Allow ourselves to celebrate aging? To cherish the life left to us instead of longing for the power and beauty of our youth? It might take some work. It might take giving that wildman a two wheeler. But think how much more comfortable he will be with a bike that fits!

Little Feathers: A Bright Little Feather

Little Feathers: A Bright Little Feather: "Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the song without the words And never stops-at all-" I lov...

A Bright Little Feather

"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the song without the words
And never stops-at all-"

I love this poem by Emily Dickinson. I remember my mom reading it to me when I was just a little girl. The image of a bird singing "a million songs without any words", as Patti Griffin says, is one that I can see in my mind's eye. The face on the notion of hope. Most birdsong is heard without ever seeing the singer. But when the singer perches in my soul and sings those songs without any words, I feel the solace coming straight from the creator.

There are so many things to worry about. Not just the ones "out there" in the big world, but worries for people I love. For friends and family facing illness and grief. For people whose jobs or children or spouse or parents are in trouble. For friends of friends whose losses or sudden challenges send me to my knees. But then the thing happens. Not immediately, because I can worry with the best of them. But then the gift is given. The songs.

Sometimes hope drifts into my awareness like that little feather in Forrest Gump. Just softly rising into the sky, swirling and lifting. Sometimes it's the birds that begin to sing just before the sun comes over the mountain when I'm here at the cabin. The forest behind us is filled with the little gift givers, and they are the sweetest alarm clock. A new day starts with their song.

Last night, hope came from another gift. When I lay awake worrying about everything and everyone, Bob reminded me that there was something else to focus on. All that we have to be grateful for. The beautiful people we were given to love. And that song, that one without any words, the one that perched in my soul and called itself hope, that song lulled me to sleep.

The bright little feather is the one that makes the dawn look beautiful. The one that makes the day seem possible. Emily's hope sang without any feathers. But mine is lined with the downy beauty of the creature who gets to fly, who sings so beautifully from a throat created for music. Hope. 

Thank You, Leonard!

Last night I saw Bernstein's Mass. Peter Bay and friends pulled out all the stops to mount this massive (pun intended) production. I was amazed and awed that Austin would have gotten behind this deep look at faith and hope. Because Austin seems more comfortable with being cool than being introspective. At least, that's my impression.

As the scenes devolved into chaos and anarchy, even the altar wasn't reserved for the sacred. Leonard was pushing our boundaries. Pushing, pushing, pushing to make us say how much is enough. What is of man, and what is of God? How much grief can a human take and still turn to hope, turn to God, turn to truth, turn to good? One thing I liked is that Bernstein stripped away all the props of religion, yelled at and cried out to God, and in the end was left with only the silence, and the small voice of hope singing a new song. A Psalm. Really quiet music from the throat of God.

What struck me again last night is that these times we live in forty some years later are part of the same picture, part of the same journey that America has been on since Kennedy was shot. And way before that. Like to the time of Cain and Able. We had a few years in there that made us think (some of us, because for some this is never the case) that we had come out of the social schisms and tears in the fabric of our society's identity, and that we had healed as a nation. But this grief we experience today at the hatred of one for another isn't new. Our clothes are different, but that's about it.

I know this is a theme I keep coming back to. And I'm not saying, "It's okay, it's been this bad before so we don't need to worry." I'm saying, we are still on this hard road of grief, and we still have choices to make about who we will be in the end. Thanks for the reminder, Leonard.

Little Feathers: An Unpopular Word in Unpopular Times

Little Feathers: An Unpopular Word in Unpopular Times: We live in unpopular times. How often have we heard the word "unprecedented" in regard to some news item? And it's never good....

An Unpopular Word in Unpopular Times

We live in unpopular times. How often have we heard the word "unprecedented" in regard to some news item? And it's never good. Never unprecedentedly good. The momentum of the bad news/terrible state of humanity is like a freight train. So I was really surprised this morning to hear words of hope echo into that chamber of horrors. And I'm going to try hard to articulate what my brain did with those words of hope.

The unpopular word is one that has been used to abuse people for centuries. To pound them, to beat them, to bloody their poor heads and hearts. Ironically, it has been wielded as a weapon by the very people who should know best that it is a word of hope. I can't put it off any longer, I have to write the word. Sin. I know, you hate that word (if you are in my generation or younger, for sure). It made me blanch when I heard it this morning. Because it's been used by people who are later arrested for doing it. By Christians!! Holy mackerel. Not just priests and pastors and teachers in the church, but by the entire priesthood of believers. By me.

How can it be hopeful to talk about sin? To think about sin? It has almost become a four letter word. But here's the kicker...it is the bottom line of all hope. I'm not talking about worrying about sin and everlasting hell (there are so many people living in hell in this world right now that the whole Dante version is meaningless to me). I'm not talking about demanding that people accept a certain religion, or call God by a certain name to get the benefit of the hope. 

Sin is hardening my heart against another human being. Because one way God still creates, still works in this world, is through us. God never left. God didn't die and rise again and go to heaven and leave us alone. God is here. God is living in that one that we can't stand. The one who believes some crazy religion, or no religion, or belongs to the "other" political party. You know the one, the person who clearly isn't as smart/compassionate/hard working as we are. God is living in that reporter on the other channel that I just can't stand. In the politician I detest. God is living in that person who keeps begging on the corner when I suspect they are just mooching. God is even living in that driver who clearly doesn't know how to drive and will slow our journey by minutes at least. God is living in the addict who has lost themselves in drugs/alcohol/sex/gambling/work/food, or just plain self-centered-ness. Which is, more often than not, you and me.

Wait, I'm coming to the hopeful part. If sin is the hardening of our hearts against God in others, then we have the power to change that. We can even pray for help to change it. Because, honestly, can you imagine that God would rather we be haters? Can you think for one second that God would not jump at the chance to help us be better humans?

Hate somebody? Stop it. Resent somebody? Let it go. Demand that someone think the same in order to be loved? Get over it! Choose to love the God in them even if I can't bring myself to like them. I predict it will cause an unprecedented improvement in human history. If I think it doesn't matter how I talk about people, I'm part of the downward spiral of moral courage. If I think it doesn't matter if I spread gossip, if I can't wait to defame someone, I'm part of the illness that is blocking the sun. Anger breeds contempt. Contempt is a blight. Oh I know, everyone thinks they have righteous anger. Know any truly righteous people?

Unpopular times- they are upon us. But people who commit to love justice and do mercy will shine the light that is so lacking. Sin, it's the old, old story. The Old Adam sitting around in his underwear waiting for others to bring him a beer. BUT it's not the final answer. Thank God, the chance to choose truth is as available to us as ever. And that is just plain hopeful.

Little Feathers: True North

Little Feathers: True North: Apologies to real navigators. Disclaimer- novice in action. In high school, decades ago, I learned that a compass doesn't really po...

True North

Apologies to real navigators. Disclaimer- novice in action.

In high school, decades ago, I learned that a compass doesn't really point to the North Pole. It points to magnetic north, a variable magnetic field that is not fixed in relation to the earth's axis. You have to make adjustments in order to travel North. And don't even think about Astronomical True North, or grid north. Those tidbits of information have wiggled around in my brain all these years. Kind of like when you discover that no one is really in charge.

There are lots of distractions from the truth, and that is my analogy. There are lot of distractions from keeping true to my authentic self. Sorry if that phrase has become hackneyed. It works really well to describe my goal, so I'm risking some rolling of the eyes when I use it.

I used to be so sure of things. I didn't question anything, or any authority. My compass was pointed North, and that's all that mattered. That may be the way with most young people, especially those who have been given a sheltered and easy childhood. Or, it may be peculiar to me. Regardless, that surety was blown away, for me, on 9/11. I was young and immature during the Vietnam protests, or it would have happened then, I imagine.

My childhood was filled with heroes. Roy Rogers in his white hat. John Wayne. Zorro. Then there were the real ones: Rosa Parks, Amelia Erhart, MLK, John Glenn. And John Glenn again. Heroes were good people traveling due North. Toward truth and justice.

Then the black and white picture faded to shades of gray. Good people made huge mistakes. Including me. And nothing was quite as simple anymore.

If I'm honest, which authenticity demands, I can't glide along with the crowd, taking up trends here and there that fit the moment but not the journey. But I do. That pesky magnetic field has a strong pull, and sometimes I find myself spending long periods of time following some mixed bag or another. Uh-oh, more mixed metaphors.

Most people I know want to belong. They want to be in the know, savvy, etc. Because we get laughed at when we show our naivete or inexperience. But striving to live in a way that shows I'm cool is a diversion from my path. Plus, I'm not able to pull it off. My true self manages to peek through. So what I really, really want is to not listen to that siren call of the faux north. To listen only to the instincts that tell me who I really am. It's a goal. Like traveling True North.

Little Feathers: When the Student Is Ready...

Little Feathers: When the Student Is Ready...: I hope I can capture in words this Easter gift I was given today. Actually, the gift has been revealing itself for a few weeks now. But toda...

When the Student Is Ready...

I hope I can capture in words this Easter gift I was given today. Actually, the gift has been revealing itself for a few weeks now. But today a shift in perspective, a changing of the angle, as my great friend Mary says, let a precious insight sparkle like the very best light for my spirit.

Appalled by injustice and oppression done in the name of Christ, I have had a lot of trouble embracing the church for a few years now. I have wanted to apologize for, more than celebrate,the church on earth. This has caused the field of my faith to lie fallow, or sometimes downright dying. It has caused me to repeat, ad nauseum, all the things I can't believe about God. Some of the most troubling things are in the creeds and prayers of the church, and I have felt at turns blasphemous and rebellious when faced with dogma I feel was created to keep some in power and others under the thumb. Some in the club and some left begging at the gate. Many mixed metaphors, I know.  I know you will understand just what I mean when I say I have wept that crosses -meant as the reminder of the ultimate sacrifice of a creator who would go to the very gates of hell to call "home free" to every creature ever made, those same crosses would be used to strike fear into the hearts of those who found them burning on their lawn. That's the best example I can think of to tell you the trouble in my heart. We won't even go into the Crusades, the Inquisition, the treatment of minorities of every kind, the blind eye to predator priests, using scripture as a battering ram or weapon of exclusion, etc etc etc.

A few weeks ago we started going to a nearby church. It could be any church, most likely, but this particular one was chosen for me. Because the Holy Spirit keeps giving words to the minister there, words that feel like living water poured on that fallow field. Little phrases that catch my imagination, the most important part of my brain, to me. Not new information, just little drops of water at just the right time.

Today the crowning moment came for me when the minister was preaching, and talking about the women who fled in fear from the empty tomb. As he talked about them running back the way they had come, fearful and confused, I saw my own self with them. Because I don't get it. I don't get so much of it. And the contradictions have dealt me a blow that I has left me reeling, for a while now.

But as the sermon went on, God had something private to say to me. The gospel reading today was not about the ones who later came and saw Jesus sitting in the tomb. But my mind went there anyway, led by a God who loves me. And instead of the words from the Bible, when Jesus saw me looking into the tomb, he said, just to me, "See, I have already been every place your fear can go. I have been in that place already. And you will not go there alone. No fear is beyond me."

I still have a lot of trouble with aspects of the church. But those are really people problems, not God problems. I have been left this day with a peace, a heart for understanding that God is so much bigger than the tiny parameters the church has given God. I know this is nothing new. But the peace is new for me today. And I am grateful.

Little Feathers: Just The One Time

Little Feathers: Just The One Time: How did we get here? How did we get to this place of distrust, disrespect and lawlessness? One decision at a time. The one time we decid...

Just The One Time

How did we get here? How did we get to this place of distrust, disrespect and lawlessness?

One decision at a time.

The one time we decided not to let our child face the consequences of a bad decision. Because we wanted to protect them from disappointment or failed dreams. But we knew deep down, even then, that the only failed dreams are ones that don't belong to us anymore because we've sold out.

The one time we decided not to alert the retail clerk to an error in our favor. A little chink in our armor of self respect. But a chink non-the-less.

The one time we decide to jump on the bandwagon of dragging someone down. Anyone. Anywhere. Because mobs are always cool, until they're not.

The one time we get behind the wheel when we know we are impaired. There's just a little ways to go, and a cab would be inconvenient. There can be no finger pointing ever to someone else's bad judgement once we've made that rationalization. The difference between us and them? We arrived safely without killing anyone and they did not.

The one time we let a friend badmouth our spouse without letting them know that is stunningly bad taste. It doesn't have to end the friendship, but we do have to let them know that disrespecting our spouse is not okay. If we can't say it because we fear their reaction, we have made our choice.

The one time we continually watched (oxymoron, I think) a show where the people prove dominance of ideas or popularity by out-screaming each other. The cheapening of dialog starts with not letting someone finish their sentence. (I wish I had a nickle for ever time I've interrupted someone. Then I could send that money to a good cause and resolve, once again, not to do that anymore.) If we don't watch those shows, the money lenders, who are the enablers, will get the message.

The one time we called an elected official a derogatory name. Privately hating them is one thing, and I think we need to do a blood check on the level of hate in our 'stream, but demeaning them because they have a different point of view is another. We can say this is trickle down, starts at the top, etc. But we are not in charge of anyone but ourselves. Are we going to mimic behavior we hate in others?

The one time we fail to stand up for what we know is right, working for change, because we fear what the popular kids think. High school left a mark! Let's erase it. Who cares what someone else does or thinks if we know we need to be/act/talk/argue/ for something? This is opposite, in my opinion, of tearing someone down. It is building up what we know is good and right.

The one time we invented excuses for ourselves because the truth was too embarrassing. Lots of stuff is no one else's business, period. But we don't have to lie. Really. I don't know anyone who hasn't done this. Which is kinda my point.

The one time we let fear stop us. Fear of failure, fear of judgement, fear of losing our stuff. What we need to fear the most is the sellout.

I'm sad that we have come to accept mocking someone for their faith/size/intellect/talent. It's beneath us a nation. As a society. As an individual. I don't want to do it anymore. And since I'm the only one that I'm actually in charge of, I'm wanting to set a goal for myself to do the things I know are right. Just the one time. And the next. But let's start with just the one.

Little Feathers: Turns From The Corner, Lullabies, A Pen, A Paint...

Little Feathers: Turns From The Corner, Lullabies, A Pen, A Paint...: Balance', balance', pique (single), pique (double), prepare and triple (honor demands you try again if you fall out of the first tri...

Turns From The Corner, Lullabies, A Pen, A Paintbrush

Balance', balance', pique (single), pique (double), prepare and triple (honor demands you try again if you fall out of the first triple pirouette, but if you do not pull up sufficiently the second time, you will double the next go round), glissade assemble' derriere (if you eat up enough floor with this, you can add a whole combo to your turn), inside pirouette (single), soutenu. Repeat as many times as you can fit in your diagonal run.

When I think of my teenage self in Miss Van Valey's studio, this is truly my favorite "turns from the corner" sequence. It must have resonated in my bones to be with me 50-some years later. I can hear Mrs. Erhardt playing the modest upright piano in the corner, Miss Van Valey calling out corrections, which were adamant and loud when we missed a position. Never was it an option to finish a pirouette in a questionable position other than the assigned one. I still long for the feeling of exact balance, the string from the crown of my head, a taught helper lifting, lifting, lifting me out the standing hip that can fool one into sinking into the floor, away from the sky that we aspired to inhabit.

I loved to dance. It snuck into my dreams, snuck into my identity. It studied ballet only until I went to college. Then I learned that the sky I had longed to inhabit en pointe was open to new, creative, limitless ways to dance.

One day, I traded my dancing for mothering. Another love. Another way to see beyond myself. A gift.  Though there were hard days, tired days, confused days, heartbreaking days, I was a mother to my bones. Maybe my favorite part was singing lullabies, reading to them, praying with them at bedtime.

Another day, in a bid to let the kids grow up to be their own people, I took up a pen. Or, more accurately, a keyboard. I wrote stories. I wrote devotions, and books, and poems and songs and emails and facebook posts and and and and. I was a writer. In my soul. Words made pictures, made conclusions, made unanswerable questions, made me stop stop stop and think.

Last summer, a day came along that put a paintbrush in my hand. At 63, I suddenly saw color and composition as an opportunity to seek that same sky, that rarefied air that called to me as a teen age ballerina. Now I'm painting everything that catches my fancy. I am a baby in the school of art, a novice of the first degree in all things art. But that is not a stumbling block for me, because I have the absolute luxury of learning something new.

I was so blessed that my parents worked hard to give me dance lessons. I was incredibly blessed to mother three of my favorite people. I was blessed to have the time, and support of my husband, and the means to learn to write. And I feel the same now with painting. And I am grateful.

Turns from the corner will inhabit the long-hallowed halls of my memory. Mothering lives on in my heart, long after the children are grown. Writing still calls to me, giving me voice. And painting is an exciting journey into new territory. Hello sky. I see you up there. Waiting.

Little Feathers: Of Garth Brooks, Poets, and Gifts

Little Feathers: Of Garth Brooks, Poets, and Gifts: If you haven't listened to The Gift, you must. Suspend your desire to be sophisticated, suspend your worldly cynicism. Listen to a story...

Of Garth Brooks, Poets, and Gifts

If you haven't listened to The Gift, you must. Suspend your desire to be sophisticated, suspend your worldly cynicism. Listen to a story that is, and is not merely, about a poor girl, a bird, and a gift on Christmas Eve. Because there is so much more to this story.

Now that you've listened, I won't worry about spoiling the ending for you. Because I want to talk about the gift. On first glance (or hearing), the gift is the little bird the girl brought to the manger on Christmas Eve. Garth can make you see the trembling fingers of the sweet one who desires to honor the Christ, but who is intimidated by the offerings of the wealthy. Garth can make you cry (if you are a weeper like me and Jude Law in the Holiday) as he reveals the pure, sweet power of willingness.

Willingness is the loud-striking sound in this soft-hearted song. Because none of us can ever experience the fulfillment of our own gifts without the courage to lay them out there. To open the door where they are kept, confined by the cage of our own device; to lay them next to the riches of other offerings.

Willingness comes with a cost. We have to risk rejection, risk failure, risk everything really. Because the kind of willingness I'm talking about leaves no pretense, no walls of pride to hide behind.
What gifts have we been given that can make life easier, if only for one other person we may never meet?  Sometimes artistic gifts are the ones people think of first. But they are only one kind. There are researchers, engineers, honest and dedicated people in every field who put their souls into the offering of their gifts.

There is a secret hidden in this song, The Gift. For me, in my own mind, I hear the promise of reward for willingness. Not rewards as we may think of them. Not everyone who is willing to give their gifts becomes wealthy or renowned. They don't use the phrase "starving artist" for nothing. And we know even The Bard died penniless. But how much richer is the world for his gifts to us?

If we are the collective-if all creation pulls together in one intertwined river that flows to the sea, then every person who uses their strengths, who is willing to put them out there for the world to see, draws us all forward, upward into the rafters of the ancient church to sing as nightingales. Okay, I'm mixing metaphors all over the place. That's okay. I'm risking it. Hoping you'll listen with open hearts.

My mother first read me these verses by Robert Frost when I was a child. I had no idea at the time what a complex, difficult world this is. I only knew that the cadence, the rhymes, the quiet beauty of the poem spoke to me.

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

After I was grown, I learned that Robert Frost was desperate to find Christmas gifts for his family,

and could not afford them. The sorrow of that now informs the verses for me. I wish he had been paid

for the beauty he gave to the world, and to me. 

I wish the world always rewarded good, always recognized sacrifice, always understood true value.

But even if the world does not, we can. 

Half of the value of a gift is in the giving itself. In the willingness to open the door. And half of the

value is all we will know as the giver. But it is enough. More than enough.  

Little Feathers: The Most Surprising Thing

Little Feathers: The Most Surprising Thing: Everyone I know is looking for freedom. Freedom to be themselves. Freedom to work toward goals formed by hopes and dreams. And freedom from ...