something you can do when your soul (or mine) just can't take one.more.thing.

Last week was the worst. Really, the worst. It was a four-job rejections-in-one-week-some-for-reasons-beyond-my-control-and-some-for-the-worst-reason-of-all-that-is-I-fell-flat-on-my-face-because-I-was-too-afraid-and-blew-an-opportunity-sky-high kind of week. It was one of those week when just when I felt I really couldn't take one more thing before I crumbled and fell into a pile of tears or despair or worse, apathy--one more thing seemed to keep happening.  I was tired, heavy, and shell-shocked by it all. Maybe I took it all a bit too personally, but I've discovered that that is the way of things for me. Things affect me.

So what does one do? I didn't know, and really nobody does in that moment. How do you put back the pieces of your own confidence and find a way to move forward? I didn't know. I didn't even want to know (I think this is okay sometimes). So, I read. I just picked up a book and let everything just sit heavy on my shoulders as I read. Quietly passing time in pages rather than minutes.

This sound like a small thing. It wasn't. I remembered the healing power of fiction, of stories, to restore our soul and to slowly bring life back and to move it forward in some unspoken way.

I read the Life of Pi. I had started it ages ago. A student wanted to read it, and even though I wasn't finished, I could tell how badly he wanted to read it, and just gave it to him. I never saw that copy of it again. I have since seen him around, I think he loved it as much as I did. That is a bond worth all the lost books in the world. He and I shared that story.

I am glad that life made me wait until now to finish it though. It was the exact book that I needed to read at this exact moment in my life. It talked about fear, and losing, and winning, and hope, and grief, and holding on, and fighting for things with your very soul, and then being forced to let them go. Oh, I cannot tell you what it meant it to me. The writing was beautiful. The story moved slowly and that's just what I needed as well--a slow moving, soul searching story. The kind that turns you inside out.

Good fiction works itself out hard and beautiful in the painstaking details,  and often before we even know it, we are changed. It helps us to be unafraid, it helps us to lie low, and to listen, and to wait--goodness is always on the horizon. In it we can find courage, or rest, or joy, or cathartic pain. It will bring us what we need at that moment.

So when your soul cannot take even one more thing, or when you are afraid and cannot take one more step, maybe just start by turning one more page. In it you will find hope, you will find motion, and a slow steady momentum. And when you are finally ready to lift your head from the pages and face reality again, you may find that your spirit has been strengthened to hold on, or let go, or fight, or give up, or whatever it is you needed the strength to do.

So even though nothing in the world seems to have worked out in a way I would have guessed or wanted, I am least reminded of the salvation that can be found in a good piece of fiction. Sometimes we fight our fears quietly, and in the pages of book and not out in world. Sometimes it is the power of stories that see us through.


“I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unnerving ease. It begins in your mind, always ... so you must fight hard to express it. You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don't, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you.” 

― Yann Martel, Life of Pi

bringing the boat in at night...

You start out gliding through glass.

Quiet, just you, under a wide, full moon, rising over the dark waters. Dimly lighting the way.

There are lights, others, like you, drifting with some purpose in mind.
Sometimes you can't tell how far or close they really are. 

The trick is to not try to see too far ahead. To see what's right there.

Stay centered, and bring her safely in.

It takes a special kind of vigilance,

keeping your eye on the shore lights but still right on ahead,

watching for stray buoys, or logs,  settled in the silent night waters.

Then the shore lights near a little,
Specks on the horizon, growing bolder, hailing you to a safe place.

But it will still take longer than you thought.

You'll start to wonder in the black if you really saw what you thought. If that is the shore you wanted?
Or was it a ways back? If you are really moving towards dry ground. 

Stable and solid.

But you must see it through. You must trust what you knew of this place in the brilliant light of day.

When sky and shore and water were all so distinct.

You must move inch by inch through the depths.  For eventually the shore will near and you will find yourself tied sturdily off on a dock. 

You're feet firmly on the ground.

findING a job, but mostly finding something else even better

Lately life has been this combination of opportunity and disappointment. Sometimes it looks something like hope and other days it smacks of despair. Transitions have always been tough for me. There are days they feel adventurous, like something lovely on the horizon about peek its head over the hills, all light and goodness. Then there are days when its all so terrifying, and I curl my toes and dig my heels firmly into a steady soil, resistant to change. Resistant to the unknown.

Oh, the unknown. And that is just it. Life is hazy right now. I don't know what life will look like in the next few months, or the next year, or the next five. And really, who knows any of that about life to begin with?

For me, all this comes in the form of starting a career. Which, never did I expect it to be this way. I never thought it would matter so much. But it has to me. And in this whole process I learn. I learn to move forward and to be confident. I learn to take it on the chin when life seems unfair. I learn to keep spinning my wheels, because I won't know right away where they are going. I learn that I can be ugly and jealous and petty. But that I can overcome it and learn to be happy, so very happy for others. Sometimes.

And of course I learn grace. This has been the most wonderful. That in these waves of hope and despair. Storms of my own emotions or disappointment. I can rest.  I am learning the most delicious thing about grace and it's that there is always enough for me. It never ever ever runs out. Ever! Did you hear me? While that is just about enough to surge joy right through anyone, it gets better. Since grace never runs out for me, there is always enough for giving. I am finding that by receiving grace upon grace upon endless, endless grace. I can give it fearlessly. I can give it with abandon, knowing that the stores will never run dry. The dam has already broken and it runs wild. We are all already swept away in it.  That even when life feels graceless, when I feel graceless and run ragged and raw by the blows of life, there is still more than enough. It was never really my own grace to give anyway. Which is what makes it so great for giving away.

All of this to say, after posts like this or this grace finally caught up with me. Which I guess isn't really right, it was always there, its just a matter of remembering it.

the story of shearing day

Up at 5:30 to pile on layers and layers of mismatched winter-wear. Long johns, jeans, sweater upon sweater, hats and scarves. A little while later she arrives and I hop into the car. Bleary-eyed, but quietly wild with anticipation, we hit a drive-through for some coffee and a quick a breakfast sandwich. After all, who has time to make breakfast on a big day like this?

A freeway and a few curving country roads later we arrive and step out into the cold. The farm is on a hill so the bitter chill of winter weather (still? it's March) swirls around us along with a few stray sparkling flakes. Magic. My heart jumps with excitement as we near the barn. I can hear the sheep bleating, not as gentle as some would think. They are hungry (no food before shearing), they are scared (why are we up and moving already?) and they don't seem to mind speaking their mind. Blurting out call after call.

It's funny how I love these sort of days but how unaccustomed to them I really am. I clumsily climb over the pen, limb over tangled limb, and introduce myself to Du-Roy, a white Shetland ram. I look at him and my friend unsure of what to do next. She explains to me what "rooing" is. Rooing?

It is the process of gently pulling away the previous years coat and exposing the new years' coat. The wool is thick, and soft, and greasy with lanolin. (Lanolin is an oil that sheep secrete, and before you cringe in disgust, go read the ingredients on your creams and lotions. Its probably listed.)

We wait on shearers and get to know the flock. A moving sea of sheep slowly become recognizable faces. There are two brand new lambs to cuddle and make over.  Soft and brown. A week old, but already bouncing, skipping, all energy and wool. Their new faces show none of the fear that is written on faces of the others. Red, the English Shepherd keeps his close watch on mom and babies, his eyes shift as we pass the lambs from person to person.

The shearers finally arrive and the real work begins. There are two quiet young men, tall and lanky, that do the actual shearing. All day their faces shift from the focused scowl of a worker, to the softened smiles of a caretaker. The rest of us are bagging fleeces, sweeping the shearing the stations, handing off the shots and medications for each sheep, and wrangling sheep back into pens.

Its amazing the differences in sheep personalities. We start with rams, their fleeces so big, you could just roll up in them and sleep warm for days. Rams, for the most part, fought very little. Then the ewes. Some were quiet and calm. They looked uncomfortable, but just seemed to lay back as the wool fell to floor, soft like a cloud. Others though, struggled and bleated and kicked and rolled. It was a wild fight, and sometimes I wonder, who is really winning?

When it came time for returning sheep to pens, I have things to learn. Some seem to know right where to go. Then there are others. With these, there is plenty of panicking, running, and grabbing, and that's just me. Some sheep bolt past the gate, while others run the opposite direction. A real chase down. Mimosa, a small ewe, standing about a foot and a half off the ground, has me on the ground in a matter of a few seconds. She darts into her pen and we both slowly stand, look at each other, and wonder what just happened. Equally traumatized. With time I am better. Realizing sheep need direction more than force. They need a calming hand, rather than a powerful one. The shearers seem to know this. One of them scoops up the smaller ewes in his arms and carries them gently to the pen himself.

When the sheep are all shorn and the wool all bagged. The sheep enjoy their new lightness, unfazed by the cold. They scratch and shake, and dance their own noisy freedom dance. They rub against each other, reacquainting themselves with what they mistake to be new pen-mates. (Really, they don't recognize each other now.)

 The llamas are next.

 Octavias (above) and Lucky. Both of which have been aware all day that some part of this would eventually involve them. And they don't seem to like it. The llamas stand and spit, and wobble this way and that, but in the end, they are shorn to, and return to their pens.

The wool is carried into the garage heaping armload after heaping armload. Bag by bag. Some other day it must be cleaned and carded.

 We say our goodbyes and head home, cold, tired, and smelling of hay and lanolin. But we are happy.

I arrive home and peel off the many layers in exchange for warm pajamas.

I am asleep, warm on the couch, in a matter of minutes.

learning jazz

I start out
       clumsy

on the keys
I cLunK andIclutter
on the beat up baby grand in the front room from 1926.
It just doesn't sound right,
doesn't sound the way it should,
Whatever "it" is.

Then with time,
it gets better.

Smoother
Kinder
Calmer

lt runstogethersogoodsoripeandreadytobepickedjuicyandhotandsweetandcool.

And
    Then
         It

Swings

Just like it should
                              Unpredictable

but expected all the same.

It starts to sound like red lipstick, and smooth Scotch, and sweat and smoke that hangs over our heads in some dim seedy club at 2am like our problems hovering over us,
out of sight
out of mind, and pressing down on us thick and heavy all the same. Like us.

With a foggy sigh.

Its there somewhere, it just takes time to find it.

waiting, snowing, reading, smiling, giving

Well, the new year has started off slowly for me. Yes, I realize it's February and I'm talking about New Years. I graduated in December (finally!!!) and have since been waiting on my license to process. Ohio, land of the slow. It's February and I'm still not working. Sigh, its a waiting game, and in a way, winter seems the perfect time to wait.

I know I've talked about winter and waiting before, or at least winter and resting. I have to be honest, it is about this time of year and when I start to almost physically ache for spring. The snow still falls, and the bitter winds still blow, and we have nothing to do, but wait, and hope.

With all of my waiting, I have been doing my usual wintertime activities, just in greater abundance. I've been reading like crazy.

I've started the Harry Potter series. I'm currently on book three The Prisoner of Azkaban.   I was reluctant to read these. I had already watched all the movies and wondered if I would be able to keep interest in them. I was wrong. They are fantastic, in the truest sense of the word. I open each new book, sometimes butterflies in my stomach to see how she is going to describe the magical plots I already know.

A Wrinkle in Time: The Graphic Novel , yes, you read correctly, its a graphic novel now. I've never been a reader (viewer?) of graphic novels so this was a new endeavor for me. I loved it! I've already read the first three regular novels in the Wrinkle series, and I adore them all. This was a whole new experience. I read (looked at?) each page slowly, and just took it all in. The dialogue, the artwork, the use of space--it was a new and visually interesting experience. I included this image of the first page, rather than the cover, so you can get the idea. I may venture out into some more graphic novels. Although, Meg is one of my favorite characters of all time and I don't know if anything else could quite match up.

Its funny that so much of my reading has been stories I know and love in new formats (for me).

I have also just started Mother Teresa's In the Heart of the World. I grew up very baptist, so studying a catholic, as wonderful as she was, was not looked upon highly. Recently, I have run across quotes by her here and there that have made there way into my heart and mind. I checked this out of the library, its a series of thoughts, prayers, and stories by Mother Teresa. So far its beautiful. I am touched by her giving spirit and it has changed the way I pray already. 

I mentioned that I graduated in December, my graduation date was December 14, 2012 to be exact. I suppose for many of us, that date has become a dark day due to the events at Sandy Hook. I wanted to write about them, I wanted to write about graduation, but I couldn't. Those events overwhelmed me in a way I couldn't and didn't want to describe and at times they still do. I didn't know how to celebrate in the face of grief. I was shocked by the events in Connecticut, I was shocked by the public's quick and all too political reactions. I don't think for a minute that we shouldn't look at and develop new policies, it's just that those events, those families, those teachers, those students, were so quickly exploited for political agendas of the right and the left. It all just tore my heart up. It made me question my career choice, it made me question if the world could be a good place. The world seemed darker. Hope seemed ripped out of our hands. 

Slowly, I began to "recover". I realized that the solution, isn't in politics, its in kindness. This had been called naive by so many, but I just can't get passed the notion that if we really looked, really looked at the people around us, the world would be different.

All this to say, the words of Mother Teresa have served as a healing agent for me. I needed to remember that people can be kind, that I can be kind, and that it matters. It really matters. I cannot change the whole world, but I can help the person, the people around me. I can give, I can love, I can smile, I can cry, I can forgive, I can pray. Those things matter. They are not weak things. They are not naive things. They are the strongest of things. They are our hope. The hope that nobody can rip from our hands.

"We never know how much just a simple smile will do." Mother Teresa

findING your way...

This is your adventure.

It is not what you thought it’d be.

It is not always as exciting as you’d once imagined,
at least not on the surface.

It is darker and scarier than you could have dreamed.

Some of the days seem long, and tiring, and you don’t always feel like
the hero you’d always thought of,

Strong, valiant, and brave.

Other days seem difficult and impossible, the kind they never told you about.

The kind filled with back breaking work, or even the slow strange tears of failure.

There is sweat, the kind that causes you to stop for just a moment and wipe your brow, before you just keep plodding on.

It’s not at all like they said.

It doesn’t feel like an adventure.

-

But it may be one still, an adventure that is,
and it’s yours.

-

There, beneath what seems so dim and cold.
Or, so ordinary and normal, not the stuff of some great story.

It’s there.

The quiet slow kind of adventure,
the kind that makes you who you’ve always wanted to be.

Someday it may come, quicker than you dreamed, or slower,
that is not for me to say,
nor you,

Someday, You will find yourself again on some marvelous mountain top.

Standing on two strong legs,
And that will be your adventure too.

You will have conquered, and fought, and rejoiced, and sang.

But this, this dark and ordinary day,
this one moment,

this, dear friend,

This is your adventure.

Live it well.