thankful for you

To pray is to take notice of the wonder, to regain a sense of the mystery that animates all beings, the divine margin in all attainments.  Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable surprise of living.  It is all we can offer in return for the mystery by which we live.  Who is worthy to be present at the constant unfolding of time?  Amidst the meditation of mountains, the humility of the flowers -- wiser than all alphabets -- clouds that die constantly for the sake of His glory, "we" are hating, hunting, hurting.  Suddenly we feel ashamed for our clashes and complaints in the face of the tacit glory in nature.  It is so embarrassing to live!  How strange we are to the world, and how presumptuous our doings!  Only one response can maintain us: gratefulness for witnessing the wonder, for the gift of our unearned right to serve, to adore, and to fulfill.  It is gratefulness which makes the soul great.  -From Man's Quest for God by Abraham Joshua Heschel 


In high school, we spent a lot of time studying arguments for the existence of God.  Cosmological argument, teleological argument, etc.  That kind of thing.  And I suppose there is a place for that.  But I've always been moved the most, in terms of evidences for the existence of God, by my overwhelming desire to say thank you to somebody for the moon.  How can people begin to be satisfied with having a general "gratefulness" without someone to whom to say "thank you"?  I suppose we can start by saying thank you to each other, but who do we say thank you to for each other, which seems like the greater desire.  


So anyway, I am thankful to you, for reading this blog, and I thank my God for you and the wonderful way He made you.  I am not worthy to witness the miracle of another human life.  And then to get to be one!  Walking around, talking, breathing, loving, drinking pumpkin pie batter from the bowl.  And then to get to talk to the Creator of my friends and family and say, "well done, good and faithful God."  It does feel a bit presumptuous I have to admit, but I suppose so is living life, prayer, the act of thanksgiving itself.  Who are we to pronounce goodness on this life?  And yet that is what we are called to and invited to join with God from the beginning of time who saw that it was good and very good.  
I love the word "ascribe."  I could think about it for years and years and never fully understand it, yet it must go hand and hand with our thanksgiving lest our thanks be as hollow as the balloons floating above New York Streets.  And it is a joy to do so.  Thank you God for the moon!  


"Ascribe to the Lord the glory due his name; worship the Lord in the splendor of his holiness." -Psalm 29:2 


Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

how good is good enough

Thursday I went to a concert/multimedia/performance piece by a man named Sam Amidon.  I highly recommend his music.  He mostly plays very old folk songs but the arrangements are (Icelandic) innovative.  My favorite moment from the concert was a home video he showed where he stares into space, obviously standing in front of some blinds because there were lines of light across his face.  He starts this eerie guttural singing/shouting, and then he looks at the camera and says deadpan, "here I am in my sun helmut."  He says some things after that, but then it dawns at you that the whole time he was saying:

SUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNHEEEEEELLLLLLLLMMMMUUUUUUUUUUUT     

I had no idea what he was saying during the sustained yelling but had the feeling that that whatever it was, it was deep and profound.  Partly this is because the concert was held in a contemporary arts center with lots of people wearing all black and trendy glasses.  And then I realized he was just being silly.  It felt like a trick.  Like a glorious trick.  

Lately I've been shouting this in the car and in the shower and around my house.  These are mostly the only places I've found where it is acceptable.    

wardrobe of my time

I've been trying sooo hard not to write this post.  The post about posting.  But I promise I'll make it short.

I started out without much of a plan for this blog and it felt good, a loose fitting garment.  But in the past two months, it's gotten too loose.  Falling off the shoulders.  I can't walk without a belt, etc.  So I decided to wear some other clothes and put this one in the closet.  Mainly four part time jobs and other responsibilities that feel at times like straightjackets.  I've been wearing more comfortable outfits too, like time with family and friends, playing piano more.  I think sometimes you look down at an outfit and realize it makes you look kind of fat or weirdly shaped and there's an initial disillusionment when you realize it's probably not going to attract your future husband or fame.  I think I realized recently "poet" is probably going to be the dress I wear on the weekends, rather than my work uniform.  And so I've been kind of avoiding it...the shame of changing my mind again....

But now that I've put this back on it feels nice, even without a belt.  Though I hope to get one soon.  

birthday wishes, 9 years ago

"October 13, 2002.  With 24 minutes and 6 seconds of my 17th birthday left, it seems as if a toast to the day is the only thing left in wanting.  And seeing as how the only stuffed animal out of 21 in my room that can talk will only say mooo when squeezed, I suppose I will be forced to be my own best man on my wedding day.
Dearest Natasha.  Today you are seventeen.  It's so hard to know what to say to you.  You whose youth has been padded from real pain like the furniture of the Glass Man.  Ha, you have not praised God enough for time my dear, and each second that ticks out of the corner of your peripheral hearing.  What an amazing feature and aspect of our world time is.  Poets cannot capsule it, and scientists and quantum physics cannot explain it.  A circle cannot define it, nor a line with tick marks.  It blurs past in 18 legs printing past the 68 year old man, and the 13 year old girl calling it to hurry up, its lame leg dragging behind, while she puts on heavy makeup.  I don't know and I can't comprehend.  Your cat lies on your lap like in 3rd grade and in his silky ears there is no difference.  Shadow kills and soon shadow will die.  Don't you wonder if he knows?  Well, anyway, you're seventeen alright and before you really know it you'll be 35 and remembering how skinny you are now, and maybe telling Nasty to go to bed.  Goodnight Natasha of 17 and if my words come back and haunt you, whoever you are or wherever, don't forget to fall on your knees saying, "Holy" and knowing how much of the picture is blocked being in time, but also that without it, what you can grasp, and stories and parables would crumble."

I found this recently in my journals.  It looks like I've been writing the same drivel for years now.  Although I have to admit for a 17 year old, pretty interesting stuff.  As a sidenote, I went through a phase where I thought it would be fun to reclaim bad words by naming my kids and raising them up right, hence Nasty.  Happy Birthday to me!  RIP Shadow.   

a foray into fiction writing....prosaically!

He liked it when she let her hair down.  Liked it when she put it up.  Something about the motion of it, he said.  The way her arms framed her face.  He liked the way her head tilted when she took out her earrings at the end of the day, and the way she held her silverware, so prim and proper, like a lady, he said grinning, stabbing at his dinner with his elbows raised.  He liked the slant of her cursive.  Loved the way she said his name, even when she was angry and especially when she was tired.  He would tell her these things when they first began dating, and she never realized how much it affected her to have someone notice all the mundane choreography she’d developed subconsciously over the years.  And even after they got married, especially when they were first living together, discovering the deep pockets of each other’s habits, he would celebrate each pattern he found.  It’s so cute how you take out your left contact before your right one, he pronounced on more than one occasion.  She basked in his enjoyment, his feeling of luckiness that pervaded from the beginning of the relationship.  And she did not argue with it.

But now that he was gone, she found that she had never noticed his small movements.  She became obsessed with trying the dredge up memories of minutia so she could miss them, but over and over she realized she simply could not recall his techniques of shaving or where he put his keys after work or what he wore to mow the lawn.  She knew his favorite breakfast food should pang her when she ate it, but she did not know whether to cry over eggs or pancakes.  And so she cried over both, rubbing her knuckles hard across her front teeth, a habit left over from childhood.  There was no one left to pull her hand away now. 

putt putt

how lovely it is
to focus one's mind upon
a single goal,
the sound of neon
dropping into a plastic hole.

I almost made it.  12 days, 12 poems(ish).  I wrote this last night, but didn't have internet.  As a side note, I got the job I felt like I had such a bad interview.  It is only 10 hours a week, but it's a start.  It also leaves a lot of things very much up in the air.  I long for that singular goal, but maybe if I go putt-putting on the weekends, I'll be able to wade through the confusion of it all.  I'll be working with high schoolers as a professional encourager, which is a pretty sweet gig.  I graduated from this particular high school seven and a half years ago.  I feel like there are parts of my high school self God wants me to interact with, remember, and not fear.  Those years were so hard for me.  But now I get a chance to turn around and love high schoolers wherever they are at, which is so something God would do.  He loves that redemption stuff.  

by the banks

by the banks of the ohio,
we climbed kentucky ruins,
broken concrete slabs,
in the brilliant, yellow, evening sun.