Memoirs of an urban author. Born & bred in country shadows. L.L. Barkat
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This Was Me Two Days Ago
Okay, we're about to do this great Thanksgiving Feast, but in the meantime my DVD player died right before the party.
So don't be fooled by how old the lady above looks. Really, this was me two days ago. (The mention of co-axial cables was particularly apt.) Who writes the directions for these techno-toys anyway?
Come sit with me a spell. Live at 5:30 pm Central Time (6:30 Eastern). At WSOY's Direct Line. The station streams starting at 5:00 pm, when I believe several hundred college students are being highlighted for their work with creating habitats. Then it's me at 5:30 pm.
I'd be delighted if a few friends were going to be in the living room, smiling and nodding.
Sofa for Three at the Louvre, in Napoleon's Apartments. Photo by L.L. Barkat.
A Bite of Pie and Thanks
Thanksgiving.
What does it conjure for you? Food, football, sleep, too many dirty dishes? On November 20-something-ish (how's that for a definitive date), at Christianity Today, I'm set to talk about marching farmers and homeless slaves, to reflect on how we can celebrate a festival of thanks.
When it comes to Thanksgiving, though, I bet you also have a lot to share. That's why I'm extending an invitation...
___________________
You are cordially invited by L.L. Barkat to join a Thanksgiving Celebration. Just post about a Thanksgiving memory, something you are thankful for this year, a special family Thanksgiving tradition, your favorite "thanksgiving" bible verse, or anything else you can dream up.
Be serious, spiritual, creative, beautiful, humorous, whatever... it's a celebration and good celebrations welcome all kinds of expression!
As a token of thanks for joining us, L.L. will link to you in the Thanksgiving Celebration post (and Christianity Today and High Calling Blogs will link back to said post, so their readers can check out the full celebration). You can make L.L.'s link-love job easier by dropping a comment at the Thanksgiving Celebration post. See you at the pie table!
To participate in the Thanksgiving Celebration:
1. post your Thanksgiving reflection with the invitation above and this little list of two 2. send the invitation to 5 or more friends (or just stash it in your cyber-drawer as a keepsake and take another bite of pie) ___________________
You bring the stuffing, I'll bring the cider. And we can smile, sigh, laugh, weep or dance together across the wires. Happy Thanksgiving!
Though anyone reading this post is free to attend, I'm going to specifically invite...
How Cool is That: Scot McKnight, Atheists and a Renegade Bird
A long time ago I interviewed Scot McKnight. I learned that he writes books based on burning questions. Soon after, I decided I probably should read one of his books, so I picked up The Jesus Creed and found a kindred spirit. He seemed to love all things Jewish, as do I.
But what probably impressed me more was how down-to-earth he was for a theologian (somebody please cry, 'Biased against theologians!' at this juncture). Now the cool side of Scot has come out full force in The Blue Parakeet: Rethinking How You Read the Bible.
Let's just say I was a little under the influence when I started the book (What are you thinking?! I was foggy-headed from residual flu syndrome). Yet I still managed to read half the book in about an hour.
That's because, flu or no flu, I could see that Scot had outdone himself in down-to-earthiness, pursuing yet again a burning question (this time one that reminds me of things my atheist friends are always saying, like... 'how come Christians pick and choose what they'll follow from the bible?') Scot turns that question into his main question, which is 'How, then, are we to live out the Bible today?' (sound familiar?)
He asks that question and then he (serious bible-commentary writer that he is) talks about a blue parakeet escapee, uses words like snarky, starts a chapter with a generous discussion of blogging, calls the Bible a set of wiki stories and remarks at one point, 'How cool is that?'
Even in a brain fog, I could see this was, to date, not only one of the most thoughtful books I've come across on how to read the bible but definitely the down-to-earthiest too.
I was so pleased to see Sara and her family in the New York Times. How cool is that?
Just for November
Back in April, when Stone Crossings first came out, I offered a limited number of signed copies here. I figured I'd never really liked the post office that much, so I preferred to keep my visits to a minimum.
It worked out especially well since Susan alone ordered several copies, thus reducing the number of times I'd need to find a parking space, stand in line, and keep my kids from sitting on the counters (why do kids want to sit on counters in the post office anyway... which is terribly inconvenient since there are signs everywhere saying, do not let children sit on counters).
Still, Christmas is coming and I wouldn't want to disappoint the post office workers with too light a workload. I'm thinking I owe them a visit, a stack of packages, a smile for the season and some kids sitting on counters to make the whole thing a perfect experience.
So just for November, I'm ready to stand in line if you'd like to order a signed copy. This time I won't put a limit on the number of copies I'll make available. Well, at least I don't think I will. Maybe I'll even put on my elf hat to go with my post-office smile.
Just for November.
see comment box for details on ordering
Writer's Relief: the Laughable Complexity of Legalism
These are the places I generally expect amusement. Morality, on the other hand, particularly legalistic morality, well... that wouldn't be the first place I'd go for a laugh. That is, until I opened up Alan J. Jacobs. Wow, that guy can really rollick with Leviticus.
My favorite part of Jacobs' book isn't the pictures... he morphs from clean cut collegiate-looking secular Jewish guy to hairy hippie-looking bible-following guy. (Though this in itself is worth taking the book from the library.) Nor is my favorite part the obvious dedication and research he undertook (any writer could totally admire the incredible work involved in such a project). Nope. My favorite part of Jacobs' book is what I'm affectionately calling his encounter with the laughable complexity of legalism.
For instance, writer that Jacobs is, he logs onto his computer but then thinks,
But wait— am I even allowed to use the computer? The Bible, as you might have guessed, doesn't address the issue specifically, so I give it a tentative yes. Maybe sometime down the road I could try stone tablets.
And then I stumble. Within a half hour of waking, I check the Amazon.com sales ranking of my last book. How many sins does that comprise? Pride? Envy? Greed? I can't even count.
Then Jacobs really heats up, and I must take the liberty to type this long excerpt. He writes...
I don't do much better on my errand to Mail Boxes Etc. I want to xerox a half dozen copies of the Ten Commandments so I can Scotch tape them up all over the apartment, figuring it'd be a good memory aid.
The Bible says, those with good sense are 'slow to anger' (Proverbs 19:11). So when I get there at the same time as this wiry fortyish woman and she practically sprints to the counter to beat me in line, I try not to be annoyed.
And when she tells the Mail Boxes Etc. employee to copy something on the one and only functioning Xerox machine, I try to shrug it off. And when she pulls out a stack of pages that looks like the collected works of J.K. Rowling and plunks it on the counter, I say to myself, 'Slow to anger, slow to anger.'
After which she asks come complicated question involving paper stock...
I remind myself: Remember what happened when the Israelites were waiting for Moses while he was up on the mountaintop for forty days? They got impatient, lost faith, and were struck with the plague.
Oh, and she pays by check. And asks for a receipt. And asks to get the receipt initialed. The Proverbs— a collection of wisdom in the Old Testament— say that smiling makes you happy. Which is actually backed up by psychological studies. So I stand there with a flight attendant-like grin frozen on my face. But inside, I am full of wrath.
I don't have time for this. I have a seventy-two-page-list of other biblical tasks to do.
I finally make it to the counter and give the cashier a dollar. She scoops my thirty-eight cents of change from the register and holds it out for me to take.
'Could you, uh, put the change on the counter?' I ask.
She glares at me. I'm not supposed to touch women— more on that later— so I am simply trying to avoid unnecessary finger-to-finger contact.
'I have a cold,' I say. 'I don't want to give it to you.'
A complete lie. In trying to avoid one sin, I committed another.
And that is why I recommend Alan J Jacobs for Writer's Relief. Just typing this, I've been laughing once again about the laughable complexity of legalism— dished up A. J. Jacobs style.
What she didn't know (at least I think she didn't) was that I was facing a crisis of identity. I can be lightly humorous at times, but all my Readers seemed more attracted to the poetic aspects of the text. I didn't want to be poetic. I wanted to be liked. People often like funny people. Ergo, I wanted to be funny.
But here was this Reader telling me in no uncertain terms... make some choices.
I think this is one of the hardest parts of writing. From top to bottom. From the big picture down to the individual words. What to leave in, what to leave out. Which face to show and which to hide. Or, if you prefer, which voice to sound or which to silence. (It's one of the reasons I blog and write poetry. In such small spaces, one has GOT to make choices. Good ones at that, to keep a community of readers coming back.)
Someone asked me recently when I first knew I wanted to be a writer. Huh?
I told him I never really wanted to be a writer. Maybe because I knew in my deepest self that, among other things, writing is an exercise in making choices. And for someone as spirited as I am, that was a difficult act of submission. In the end, writing seemed to choose me. Which means I've got to conform to this golden writing rule: make some choices, 'cause good writers have to choose.
Chosen by the Fish painting (don't know the real title!) by Salvador Dali, photographed in Paris by L.L. Barkat.
I don't know about you, but I love words. Strung like pearls. Wrought like iron. They move me. To tears or laughter, to awe or comfort. I spend many hours gathering, stringing, smelting, shaping, hoping to place lovely words in rhythms that can arrest a person.
And I seek out such words from others. I poke around promising places like Holy Experience. I quietly run my fingers through Weaving the Hours. I peek in at 23 Degrees.
Always looking for beautiful words. That's why I'm so pleased, incredibly pleased, that my favorite blog network High Calling Blogs has decided to feature Random Acts of Poetry. A new kind of Friday celebration of poetic words, in the form of both prose excerpts and poems. (Thanks, High Calling, for kicking this off with a poem of mine from Love Notes to Yahweh.)
Poetry is classically extremely difficult to get published. But here's a network that's looking for it on a weekly basis. Or just looking for poetic prose. You know, random acts of poetry. To delight you and me.
Wrought Iron Fence at Sacre Coeur photo, by J Barkat. Used with permission.
On Sunday, our church did an interesting exercise in discernment. We each received a card, then wrote what we thought God might be saying to our church, how we should be spending our time and resources. Then we shared these cards with the people sitting next to us. And the ushers collected all the cards, for the elders and deacons to look at.
My card said that we should care for the voiceless through structural and organizational approaches— living simply, taking care of creation, influencing policy. The woman next to me shared her card. It said we should care for the imprisoned and the ill.
We discussed that a comprehensive solution is needed, when it comes to the issue of the voiceless, the needy: prevention, intervention, and care. In essence, we agreed that we both have similar goals, though we each have interest and expertise in a different aspect of the solution. Clearly, I'm more the organizational type, not the nurse and the nurturer.
That's why, if I had it to do over again, I might choose to be an economist. They influence policy. Then I could say things like this, from Joseph Stiglitz...
In my years at the World Bank, I came to understand why there was such discontent with the way globalization was proceeding. Though development was possible, it was clear that it was not inevitable. I had seen countries where poverty was increasing rather than decreasing, and I had seen what that meant— not just in statistics but in the lives of the people. (Making Globalization Work)
Or I could write (and people might even pay attention) a book like The End of Poverty by Jeffrey Sachs, and open it by saying, as he did...
This book is about ending poverty in our time. It is not a forecast. I am not predicting what will happen, only explaining what can happen.
I might argue with myself by also hanging out with the impressive group that put together Alternatives to Economic Globalization. This group advocates for anti-globalization, strongly urging a local economy approach as the more compassionate and effective way to eradicate poverty.
But I am just me. I'm probably never going to be an economist. The odds predict that. Still, I can read and I can think about the implications of these various approaches to issues of poverty.
And I can live my life simply, care for my environment, consider whether genetic engineering of something as critical as wheat is wise and ultimately helpful or harmful to the poor (and put my little grocery dollars towards or away from genetically-engineered foods... oh the power of the grocery shopper!)
I can write. That I can certainly do. I can promote a book like Harvest of Hope: Stories of Life-Changing Gifts, that shows we needn't be helpless in the face of poverty (There are things I can do. There are things you can do. Even small things that make a big difference.)
As Bono has said, in the introduction to Sachs' book, We can be the generation that no longer accepts that an accident of latitude determines whether a child lives or dies— but will we be that generation?
I like the way he puts that. We are in this together. Some of us are prevention people, some intervention people, some care givers. I've found my place, begun to accept who I am. It took time. It is still in progress even. What kind of place is yours?
LL and Little-One Walking in MontMarte photo, by L.L. Barkat.
Last week, I got a very nice note from Heidi, who is a missionary in Asia. Her mom had sent her a care package which included Christian magazines. And it just so happened that two of the magazines were a January Discipleship Journal and a July Today's Christian Woman. It also just so happened that I had articles in both these magazines, and that Heidi read them sequentially. Somehow she noticed that the two articles were both written by L.L.
Well. She looked me up in the blogworld, wrote me her sweet note of encouragement and asked me about Stone Crossings. Then she shyly asked if I might be willing to let her interview me for her blog. I was happy to oblige.
Heidi asked too if I'd be willing to do a book giveaway. She said she'd never done that before and I said, Sure I can do that. I've never done it before either, so we'll be in this together.
Which is all to say that Heidi will be sharing the interview and starting the giveaway on Monday. I'd be so pleased if you dropped by to see what she asked and maybe win a signed copy of Stone Crossings. If you already own one, I suppose you could use it as a Christmas gift. Or a paperweight. I bet you could use one of those, no?
UPDATE:
I just wanted to share this very touching comment to Heidi's post, from someone named Patty...
What an amazing post. Thanks for sharing this with us. At times in the interview, I found myself crying. I think I need to read this book! Great post.
Now, I've done studies before— the kind that hire $100-an-hour statisticians to tell what the final scoop is. Or the kind that require hours upon hours of literature research in fusty journals. But the real fun has been doing this kind of study: ask people from around the world to self-report on how blogging has changed their lives. Then sit back and enjoy the view. Oh, and get some free philosophy too.
By now, I've read a lot of 5-ways-blogging-has-changed-my-life blog posts (not to mention one that declared Blogging Hasn't Changed My Life.) And I've linked to the responses I found through Technorati, Google Alerts or comments here on Seedlings (that's only fair, since I asked participants to link back to me).
Sure it was work. But it was fun work. At this point, the responses are finally slowing down, so I'm ready to to give the report (not to worry, new participants: I'll keep giving links as last responses keep coming). I hope you like the grandiose but semi-accurate title, World-Wide Study: Blogging Good for Heart, Brain and Bank Account.
In the spirit of the original meme, ahem...study, let me report the top five ways blogging has changed our lives. Some of these are top because they came up over and over again. Others are top 'cause I just want them here. Also, I'll include a little philosophy at the end. I like philosophy.
1. Blogging is good for the heart. I'm no statistician and I didn't bother counting, but almost every post I read involved the issue of real, valid, happiness-inducing social connection. People meet each other through blogging. They end up having coffee together. Or parking their RV's in each other's driveways. They cross the nation to take walks arm in arm. All this social connection is cheaper than therapy. (And blogging may just BE good therapy too, as Scientific American reports.) Yes, blogging is good for the heart.
2. Blogging is good for the brain. I remember reading Alan Jacobs' scathing estimation of blogging in Books and Culture. Said he, in marvelously academic style, blogging is the enemy of thought. I've also heard various pundits complain that computers are stealing our love of reading right out from under our feet (our fingers? our eyes?). Maybe these things are true for some, but over all, it appears that blogging encourages us to write and write and read more, watch less TV, think more, be creative, communicate better, even try out new personas. (By the way, two physician/learning specialists concur that blogging is good for the brain.)
3. Blogging is good for the backside. In other words, some of us have put on a few pleasing pounds for the sake of happiness-inducing social connection.
4. Blogging produces insomnia, sleep deprivation and messy houses— things which are potentially bad for the brain (here's where we need our statistician to help balance things out with some kind of numerical acrobatics that compare blogging's brain influence pluses and minues... but I'll leave that to the good women and men who decide to conduct a similar study for their phd's)
Of course blogging has changed us in other ways too. But I only promised the top 5. And I kept my promise. I did not break the rules. Which brings us to our philosophical moment...
When I first posted the meme, I thought about how I'm always breaking meme rules. Why is that? (You can email me privately if you've got deep spiritual answers or L.L.-psychological-evaluation answers to that question.) Accordingly, when faced with crafting my own rules, I decided to make them simple, flexible and possibly fun.
Anyway, it came to my attention through a private email and this post that rules may just be followed more if they appear to ask less. Said one blogger, Indeed, the permission to break the rules is the main reason I responded, as I generally dislike memes and getting tagged, and all that goes with it. It reminds me a little of the Garden of Eden, the Fall, Jesus, and how all this constitutes a move from 'thou shalt not' to 'grace'.
So that's it. Blogging changes lives... and invites us to inhabit philosophical space.
Eiffel Tower in Blue photo, by Sara B. Used with permission.
Sixteen years ago I went to Paris. I lost a camera (technically my wedding gift to my new husband... technically with all our honeymoon photos on it). I was an artist then, going expectantly to an artist's city. But I came home having lost heart for being a professional artist. Upon returning, I immediately began to pursue a Masters in Teaching. My time in the great city had given some things, taken away others. All of it unexpected.
Fast forward. Today, I returned from Paris. And again, it gave some things and took others away.
There were things I hoped for, sought, even acquired. A day at the Picasso museum. A visit to Roman ruins. Strawberry jam from a wonderful fromagerie.
Picasso, closed. Ruins in renovation (explain that!). Jam confiscated at security; okay, I'm a seasoned traveler, but I packed the carry-on bag from H-E- double L. In other words, I had four glass jars of sealed jam. One open jar, for breakfast on croissants of course. A bottle of water. Scissors in the kids' sewing project. Like I said, the bag from H-E-..... Oh, and I lost my airplane chocolate chip cookies, had to give them away, 'cause while I was in Marseilles I found I am allergic to almonds and the wrapper said could contain traces of nuts.
In place of Picasso, we found St. Paul's, and had a moving moment of lighting a candle for my gravely ill baby niece, Summer Rain. It was the kind of moment that I and my two girls came into all at once, agreed on without words, then found it was so when my Littlest expressed, For Summer. It was almost physical, the way we moved together in our minds before our hands lit that candle of please, God, please.
The ruins gave over to a famous bookstore, Shakespeare & Co., where my Littlest played the piano (and lost her rock when she set it down). The lost jam found us a story. And the cookies I had to give away... they found me a laugh! When reading the wrapper, which said, suitable for vegetarians... and... saving orangutans, this product is free from palm oil... my travel-weary brain read that the cookies were suitable for orangutans.
In a rather ironic twist, I wrote this on the plane and ended by saying I do not yet completely know what I have lost and what I have found... So of course, when I landed, my luggage was... who knows? Not with me on the ground.
Doors of Notre Dame in Marseilles photo; Shakespeare bookstore photo in Paris; St. Paul's in Paris photo, by L.L. Barkat.
RELATED:
L.L.'s Made to Last L.L.'s Golden (includes awesome picture of ceiling in Notre Dame Marseilles)
Windows to Blue
Night has fallen here in Paris. I walk across an old wooden floor, open the window and look out at the Eiffel tower. Blue with light. It shines cobalt blue. And now it sparkles, hundreds of white lights that look like stars blinking. On and off. The whole galaxy here outside my window, it seems.
To travel is to go nowhere. It's just like being anywhere else, says my Little one. Yet it is also to go a world apart. At times, it feels nothing is familiar. Simple things like faucets, locks, subways suddenly become adventures in living.
I notice things like... many people here wear scarves, and they tie them in a unique looping fashion. Even the old homeless man who emerges from the metro... he wears a scarf, blue like the sky. And on Sunday afternoons, people here walk with a liquid smoothness.
The children have lilting voices, Mama! they cry. Children with cropped hair, confident eyes, strong simple clothes in plain dark colors. And I... I feel like a child... my language eclipsed... sure, I can speak to get by, but my writer self is put aside and instead my eyes and ears are tuned to sights and sounds, while I stay mostly silent.
Silent, mostly, except for a lot of Merci! and S'il vous plait. Thank you, please. Gratitude expressed, mercy asked. Please and please and thank you. In a way, to travel is to go nowhere. But in a way, it is to get outside oneself, to fall out of one's little window, to go a world apart, to come back to simple please and thank you. Gratitude and mercy, language universal.
Grace Around Grace
Grace and the barn: it brought us the story of a particular table that sits on the porch of our sweet Canadian friend Ann.
But such stories are only beginnings. Our lives, and perhaps the tables in our lives, have stories behind stories behind stories. It was my profound artist friend Erin who remembered this, who said in the comment box, Ooooo, I bet the history behind that table is a gooooood story.
So I wrote to Ann, asking for the story behind the story. And this is what she said...
A story behind that table? At first, I thought no... no stories that I know. Discarded from a sister-in-law, we dragged it off to the barn, where it quietly sat for the past decade.
And then, yes, it came — a story scrap (for isn't everything storied?)
I wanted a gathering place for the porch... nothing grand or ornate. (Read: nothing glass, shiny, curvy). Just simple, a bit worn, quiet. (Do seating arrangements reflect our personalities?) Like a hawk, I scoped out thrift stores, garage sales. To no avail. Couldn't find a plain, wooden, worn table. (Does this somehow speak of the oddity of this personality? ~warm smile~)
And then I thought of the barn table: Yes. Exactly right. (Yes, I'm a farm girl— where else to find the perfect table?)
The only glitch was that kind Dutch Farmer whose wedding band I wear. He said he needed the barn table to remain in the barn. It was a fine repository for various miscellany. The perfect size. The perfect shape. The perfect age. I agreed.
For the porch.
Negotiations continued for a few weeks. As days warmed, and the porch called for leisurely sitting and talking and eating, I pressed. But neither could I find a similar replacement table for the barn.
And then one inviting summer day, there was the table, sitting out on the porch, waiting.
Confused, I asked 'But don't you need it still? And I haven't found one to swap you yet...'
He smiled kindly, the way he does. 'I'll make do. Table's yours.'
Grace.
You wrote it so well, L.L: Grace and the barn. That's where Grace entered into our messy world.
And redeems us.
Nearly every day this summer, into the fall here, we've eaten out on the porch at least one meal a day around that barn-redeemed table. Saying grace around grace.
It was the perfect place to read Stone Crossings, L.L.
But then again, isn't anywhere?
For all is grace.
(I look forward to more grace places Stone Crossings has wandered too! Thank you for this place, L.L.)
All's grace, Ann
I thank Ann for this story behind the initial story. And when I asked permission to lift it out of the comment box at my original post and raise it to the surface, this is what I said, hoping she would agree...
If you say yes, I think I will match it with a picture of an old wooden table that sits on my side porch. How many of us have old wooden tables in our lives? Oh, and wouldn't it be fun (I think it would), to invite people to do their own posts of such tables. And their own sweet, and struggling, and hopeful and mournful, and joyful posts about such tables.
So there it is. Do you have an old wooden table in your life? A storied table, as Ann puts it? Or maybe an old wooden chair? I would love to see the pictures of such tables or chairs, hear the stories. And if you tell me that you've posted such, why of course I shall link to you.* It could be our own way of saying grace around grace.
*Your patience appreciated as to the speed of my linking... I'll be in Paris for some days coming up, mostly internet free. But I shall get to it. I promise.
Old Wooden Table Photo, by L.L. Barkat. Woven Nest, by Sara and Sonia.
How do you envision yourself at 70, 80, 90? Clear minded, or memory challenged? In Stone Crossings I explore this question— albeit with a spiritual emphasis— through the work of Ellen Langer and her book Mindfulness.
Here's an excerpt from Stone Crossings concerning Langer...
What [she] found in study after study was that 'old' is too often a state of mind, not a state of fact—even in people aged eighty and up. In a series of studies that raised the bar for elderly participants, she and her colleagues saw dramatic results—from memory loss reversal to prolonged life, improved hearing and vision, increased emotional satisfaction, renewed hand strength, and so on. p.141
Richard Restak, author of Mozart's Brain and the Fighter Pilot concurs. He notes that the brain WILL change over time but says, The real question is: Will we help bring about positive, enriching changes in our brain's structure and function, or will we allow it to undergo 'disuse atrophy'? p.15. According to both Langer and Restak, we do have some choice in the matter of senility onset; we have some measure of control, depending on how we challenge our brains.
While Langer's book is more theory and research, Restak's is delightfully practical. I learned, for instance, that using my hands is vital for preserving brain health. So all that dish washing, floor sweeping, onion chopping, lawn mowing, piano and guitar playing, keyboard tapping and pencil wielding I do... well, it's good for my brain. Music is good for my brain too, as is paying attention to fragrance. Standing exercises are excellent brain developers. Learning a language is terrifically helpful. And, says Restak, The brain thrives on novelty. Stress, on the other hand literally kills my precious neurons in the hippocampus.
I can think of all sorts of applications. Notes to myself, like never hire a housekeeper... unless you are trying to develop his/her brain and put your own into atrophy. Or, hey don't sit so long at the computer; it doesn't qualify as a standing exercise. Or how about this one? Go to Paris, where you'll hear new music, see new things, relieve your stress, stand a lot, and have a reason to learn French. On that last one, I think I'll do it sometime in the next couple weeks— go to Paris, that is. Do you think I can learn French that quickly? Je ne sais pas, but I'm going to try.
Eiffel Tower photo by J Barkat. Used with permission.
Ann, my dear Ann of Holy Experience, who slowly made her way into my heart, has graciously agreed to let me post her picture of Stone Crossings, as part of my Links for Art offering.
I first saw the picture when she gave the world this eloquent review of Stone Crossings. Still, I knew nothing about the secrets behind it, the humble beginnings of the table and what Ann's mind and hands had purposed and wrought. So, thank you, Ann, not only for the picture but also for this beautiful story. Told in the kind of beautiful words you're always speaking...
It's an old wooden table, one that's been out in the barn for years, neglected. I dragged it into the sunlight this summer, painted its top face a happy, gentle scone color, sat it out upon the front porch, a place of honor. Bestowed her with a wreath of worn chairs, ancient and memoried. So the little ensemble greets visitors right at the front door, inviting them to sit a spell, share. And I smile when I think of Stone Crossings: Finding Grace in Hard and Hidden Places laying there. It seems appropriate, right. An abandonded, beat-up barn table redeemed, set in an esteemed place.
Grace found in a hidden place.
Isn't that just SO Ann? Grace that searches the darkness of a barn, works to bring love to light.
Stone Crossings at Wooden Table photo, by Ann Voskamp. Used with permission.
For Better, For Worse: 5 Ways Blogging Changed My Life
Memes. I've always had mixed feelings about them. But right from the start I've always participated (okay, unless I forget, which I sometimes do... sorry to anyone whose meme I've forgotten to follow up on!)
Which brings me to this. I never thought I'd actually CREATE a meme. Well. I was thinking about all the ways blogging has changed my life, for better or worse, and I thought how I'd love to share these things with you... and have you share your blogging stories with me and others in the blogosphere.
Anyone who has followed Seedlings for any length of time knows: I'm not much for following meme rules. So it feels odd to create a few of my own— which, of course, you can feel free to break... maybe even SHOULD break, in honor of my informal meme-breaking policy.
Here are the rules:
1. Write about 5 specific ways blogging has affected you, either positively or negatively. 2. link back to the person who tagged you 3. link back to this parent post (I'm not so much interested in generating links, but rather in tracking the meme so I can perhaps do a summary post later on that looks at patterns and interesting discoveries.) 4. tag a few friends or five, or none at all 5. post these rules— or just have fun breaking them
Now for the 10 ways blogging has changed my life ...
4. Because I met Marcus, I later met Lauren Winner at a retreat at Laity Lodge (I knew Lauren by email for three years but had never gone in a paddle boat with her, which I did at Laity Lodge.) I wouldn't have gone to Laity Lodge if I hadn't been working on a logo for The High Calling's Win a Free Retreat blogging project.
5. Andrea once blogged about Sabbath in such a convincing way that I changed the way I practice Sabbath. Now I often take a nap, I don't work, and I don't blog or check email on the Sabbath.
6. At one point, I blogged far too much. It was the first time in my life I understood, in even a vague way, the anatomy of addiction. Practicing a technology Sabbath on Sundays has been key to reorienting me at least once a week. And if you've been with me for a while, you probably see that I blog far less than I used to (sorry this means I visit you less!). As a bonus, I'm far more compassionate towards people with addictions. I just bought Mays' book Addiction and Grace, and I trust this will give me further insight into an issue I never cared much about in the past.
7. Christianne, who I met through blogging and later met face-to-face in Florida, taught me a few things about the heart. And about being grace-filled. In some ways, this converges nicely with what I mentioned in number 6.
8. Though I met Charity Singleton at the Calvin Festival of Faith and Writing, it was through blogging that I solidified my relationship with her. And eventually, when she was diagnosed with cancer, I was able to assist her a little bit, emotionally and financially. In return, she has unwittingly ministered to me, giving me a sense of immediacy and depth concerning each day's gifts.
9. Sara enchanted me with her commitment to The Compact. My Visa bill has trimmed considerably.
Oops. I broke my own tagging rules. ;-) That's neither a few, nor is it five, nor none at all.
Brooklyn to London photo, by L.L. Barkat. (Very cool. There was this contraption down near the Brooklyn Bridge, where you could stand and see people in London and you could wave at each other, as if you were standing face to face with only a bit of glass between you. I had an ice cream cone and the people in London started licking the air, begging for a bit of my cone.)
I know I can get those little book icons from Amazon, to use when reviewing a book on my blog. Sometimes I have. But more often I like to take my own pictures. Personalize things a little. After all, if I'm telling you about a book I'm reading, I feel like I want to add some aspect of my surroundings. Like I said, personalize things a little.
Sometimes other people do this too. I still remember Ann Voskamp's lovely worn, wooden table humbly holding tea for two and a copy of Stone Crossings.
And I have clicked The Jesus Creedon my floor with a cornhusk Mary, Two Men Fighting with a Knifeon my piano, and Celtic Devotions on my side porch, looking out towards my secret place.
The other day I was delighted to discover a colorful picture of Stone Crossings at Nancy's (see above). When I asked her if I could borrow the picture, she graciously commented...
l.l., i took this photo when i was sitting on my porch. i had been reading your book and put it down and placed the stone on it to keep the wind from blowing the pages. when i saw it sitting there i just had to get a photo of all the stones that were in one place. my 11 year old daughter and i like rocks and stones and have them sitting in different places in the house and now these have made their way out onto the porch this summer...
I was touched by Nancy's sweet words and her artistic photograph. Then a small idea began to grow in my mind. Links for art. Or in other words, I would love to link to you if you share a personalized photo of Stone Crossings with me. A little story to go with it, like in Nancy's comment, would be nice if you're comfortable sharing.
Just a thought. Trade 'ya: links for art.
Stones and Stone Crossings photo, by Nancy. (Photo and permanent link provided at bottom of blog sidebar.)
All last week, I facilitated a group using Ruth Haley Barton's Sacred Rhythms. It's a book on spiritual practice.
Going into the experience, I didn't expect to learn anything new— hubris, I know! One of the best things though? The group was attended by three Chinese-speaking participants. This made for a lot of interesting conversation regarding language and cultural perspectives. My favorite conversation revolved around Chinese calligraphy.
We'd gotten into a discussion about loving one's neighbor. I can hardly understand how to do that! one person said. Suddenly, I got this thought. Lucy, can you write 'neighbor' for us in Chinese? Lucy obliged (see pic above). Then I asked her to explain the component pictures contained in the character. Fascinating...
sunset... cow... rice... ear... mummy... ancient
This led us to consider that being a neighbor is something one does all day long, from birth to death, sharing our milk and our meat, our grain and our sympathy. And we listen. Because this is, from ancient times far into the future, part of the beauty of human relationship.
All this reminded me of something Tod Bolsinger says in It Takes a Church to Raise a Christian, ...Christian community is not just about neighborliness...nor is it just about proximity...It's not just about being friends or living in the same housing development. It's about sharing more than a cup of sugar and the lawn mower: sharing core values and a vision for living. (p.24)
I do believe that the Chinese character for neighbor contains some of this deeper spiritual aspect, in a way that is particularly memorable and enchanting. Which reminds me that perhaps when I've come to the dangerous place of thinking there's nothing much I'm going to learn in a certain arena, I need to get outside myself... cross culture or gender or age or status boundaries... so I can hear something unexpectedly beautiful, new.
These are the anxious thoughts that plague me when it's been a while since I've found a poem. I say found a poem, because in essence this is what happens to me. Poetry is not something I can force. Indeed, I cannot force deep writing of any kind (okay, so I should remember this now that I am stuck, again, on my next chapter in God in the Yard.)
Instead, my deep writing happens kind of like this... mystery, open spaces (mentally), serendipity, inspiration, illumination, resolve.
Just for example, I have no idea exactly where Alteration Found came from yesterday. It is, at some level a mystery. But then I kind of DO know where it came from.
I had been at the pool, reading John Poch's book Two Men Fighting with a Knife. I especially liked a poem Poch wrote to his neurosurgeon. I found myself lost in its rhythms. I felt inspired. Was it not serendipitous that I was reading Poch on the same day that my Littlest just didn't talk in the car (a miracle of miracles, giving me mental open spaces)? And was it not also serendipitous that I had been reading about the brain and its structural changes, in another book I brought to the pool: Mozart's Brain and the Fighter Pilot?
As I began toying with words, illumination followed. Some of my thoughts were sounding familiar... like a Shakespeare poem. I resolved to look the particular poem up when I got home, and to play off that poem with my own unique words... in another act of resolve— the resolve to capture a half-there poem before it could get away.
And thus I found my poem. And now I am wondering...
Two Men Fighting with a Knife photo, by L.L. Barkat.
Arrested
Empty. Wordless. Unmotivated. Arrested in my thoughts.
Not the usual fare for when I go away. In fact, I often do my best writing, my most poetic writing when I travel. But my last two trips in the last two weeks, to the "T" states, Texas and Tennessee, yielded nothing.
I didn't write one poem. Didn't do a single journal entry. I only wrote this because I'd made a promise to Jim to do a co-post. It was a real effort, a near-miss.
Perhaps it is not fair to say yielded nothing. Because what I found was a deep sense of connectedness with these places. I found that my eyes were wide open to hummingbirds and mallard ducks, my ears attentive to the unique whispers of creek and lake, canyon and sandbar. And I felt a profound sense of connection to people.
At Laity Lodge in Texas, I was particularly touched to meet a new friend named Perri (that's us holding hands above). And at a hospitable home in Tennessee, I was greatly moved by spending a few hours in the company of a group of women who had read Stone Crossings and who wanted to meet me. The circles of hands and feet are Sandy, Christine, Laura, Lue, Joan, Twila, Esther, Lee-Ann, Kathy Y., Mona, Cate, Kathy E., and Mary— sorry if I've misspelled any of your names! (Oh, and on Sunday I met their pastor, Dennis Mullen and we had a great discussion about books.)
Tonight, I thought I may tell about this meeting in my next book. Because it felt like a turning point for me, in which I was dearly open to embracing and nurturing a group of women. I just might put it in my chapter on submission. We'll see. In any case, these women with their poignant stories of pain, their longings, their loves and humors and questions, truly entered my heart and gave me joy.
I also had occasion to chat with Erin one day while I was in Tennessee. I told her how empty and wordless I was feeling. How I didn't even feel like writing about God anymore. She told me to look at the grass blowing in the breeze, just because it is pretty. There was no grass, but I went out on the deck and gazed at the lake. I watched a grey heron fly out over the water. I marveled at the roundness of tiny pinecones and tiny unidentified birds. Turtles made little plopping sounds and ducks talked softly. I was arrested by the beauty of the place.
And when I came home, I found words.
Lake in Tennessee, Perri and LL, Tennesse Book Club photos. By L.L. Barkat.
These words came 'round the corner. Thoughts on the Edwards affair.
Usually I ignore these kinds of conversations. Like when Ted Haggard had his challenges. And now John Edwards. Famous people facing infamous situations. It seems sensationalistic to join the conversations.
But it just so happens I've been reading Robert Farrar Capon. (I do that. If I read one book by an author and I like it, I go on to read others, all in a row. So I'd been reading Supper of the Lamb;Health, Money and Love;Bed and Board.) Anyway, when I heard this conversation about Edwards, I was reminded of Capon's clarity and compassion on the issue of love affairs.
In Health, Money and Love, he tells a parable about a King and a Parlormaid. It's enough to irritate just about anybody who claims not to understand how a love affair could happen. But Capon says that a love affair has the power to place the participants squarely in the roles of Lover and Beloved. (I would add that this goes for any kind of love affair, between singles or marrieds.) And these roles of Lover and Beloved are particularly powerful because they stir our desire to experience the ultimate, eternal Lover/Beloved relationship with the Divine.
This is a radically different frame than that of the 'lurid affair' that the media loves to paint. It should give us pause.
Now someone will say that Edwards had the chance to play out the Lover/Beloved role in his own marriage. And of course that is true. To this, I want to share a Capon quote I've been saving, because it fascinates me to consider what degrades intimacy and what builds it.
Says Capon, People admit it's hard to pray. Yet they think it's easy to make love. What nonsense. Neither is worth much when it is only the outcropping of intermittent enthusiasm. Both need to be done without ceasing; and that puts a premium on the minor manifestations. Obviously the sexual act itself is central. But the circle that is drawn around it consists of a thousand small passes and light touches. What they lack in moment they more than make up for by sheer weight of numbers, and it is a poor bed that sees only the grand piece of business that really arrives. It is precisely the unconsummated nonsense that makes the main absurdity fruitful. Bed and Board, p.76
I love that phrase a thousand small passes and light touches. Who knows if Edwards had lost this with his wife and found it with someone new. Maybe that's how it went. Or maybe it was altogether different. In all this, I find myself quoting the conversation I overheard, I don't claim to understand it. Still, it doesn't hurt to try.
Last week I went to Texas. For the very first time in my life. It was... beautiful. I went to Laity Lodge for a retreat. To hear Lauren Winner and Tod Bolsinger. Wow. (Photo of Lauren and I below. Do you dig that tattoo she got when she was only 15 years old?)
When I stepped out of the shuttle, onto the Laity grounds, the first thing I noticed was the weight of the sun. It seemed it might press me into the copper colored gravel. The second thing I noticed was the silence. It too had a weight. Like a silken blanket on my skin and over my senses. I was utterly taken.
The week before I went to Laity, I discovered that Jim Martin was going to be there too. From Monday to Wednesday. I was coming Thursday to Sunday. Sigh. But we decided to both write a piece on some stone stairs I thought I'd seen in a picture of Laity. We would post our respective pieces. (Rumor has it that Marcus Goodyear might also post such a piece.) I don't know if I found the right stairs. But here they are...
And here is the little piece I composed...
Morning, the last day. A stillness here. I witness canyon walls... striated grey, cream, mountain-Laurel flecked. Everywhere, things clinging to edges... yucca, purple-budded prickly pear, cedars in miniature. Water flows, ripples, catches new light. I close my eyes, hear the ascending and descending of a bird's 'too, too, too, too, too, too.' The air is barely tinged with chalky earthen fragrance. I witness all this through senses open, full, longing. Or does it witness me... morning, the last day, clinging to this edge?
I'm not usually one to post videos. But this is a favorite in my house. Great senseless song. It makes my kids laugh.
And me? It makes me laugh too. Sometimes it also makes me cry. The combination of innocence and a strange presence of maturity and knowledge-to-come in this child's aspect produces my flux of emotions. Maybe you have felt such tensions at different times... joy and sorrow all wrapped up in a single experience?
As it turns out, lime in the coconut is the perfect name for this... sweet and sour mixed together. Drink it all up. Laugh and weep, in the same swallow.
