estelle

She petitioned deliverance

begged God under the table

dared him to take she and the baby

or leave them and her life would be

His. The two on their knees

crouched beneath the wood slab

the kitchen floor cold, the planes--

low outside the window--hummed

and passed.

And so she left off her wayward life

took up the ways of the spirit

took her six children and heathen husband

(smoking out back). They packed up

to follow pillars and clouds.

The narrow road.

She was a holiness preacher,

and her oldest daughter always made dinner

so she could rest after the long days spent

standing on corners to offer up warnings.

One air raid, one knee-jerk into prayer,

one terrible wager on the freezing kitchen floor.

Then there are no more questions?

Then God speaks each morning,

gives blanket permission?

Her certainty- in her voice when she proclaimed

my eternal salvation in dire straits.

Me, at age 9, petrified

gripping the iron railing of her hospital bed.

Her certainty- she carried it even into death

powdered and shaking and slurring her 'a's

the way all French woman do.

till we have faces

Often my teacher would say, "Child, to say the very thing you really mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you mean; that's the whole art and joy of words." A glib saying.

When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you'll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?

C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

so stinkin' cute

I got an email from a former ELD student. It was a very sweet note, and besides including the precious line: I miss you and you are my teacher (friend) forever, she also used the most amazing, intricate emoticons I have ever seen.

I have to share a few:

~o(︶︿︶)o~

~\(≧▽≦)/~

O(∩_∩)O

╮(╯_╰)╭

how cute!

tightrope

What you see is the trick,

the breath-taking feat.

I have earned this name--

steady, well balanced.

stayed even-handed

swaying never.

Never be silent.

Never stay alone. Always invite

man, or grace, or god.

Never alone, not for one instant

or the wind grows too strong.

a million things snapping and burning

When I walk outside, I see the moon. It is a pumpkin orange. Spooky pretty, and you can barely smell the smoke in the air. The ash on my car looks like light snow. All apparitions of peace.

I have to talk it through in my head: the moon does not always look like this, it is not always this color. And this is not peace, this is a million things snapping and burning.

I’ve been watching the expressions of people on the streets. Inevitably they are looking at the clouds of smoke. It’s the same-ness of their faces, despite age or race or station, that strikes me. The same look, as if they are seeing God in those clouds. It’s awe, and it’s so interesting that awe looks the same on everybody.

The clouds look Biblical and that makes me sad. When I close my eyes at night and try to think of God, the first thing is the pillar of glowing smoke rising over my mountains. It could easily destroy and displace all of us. I don’t want that to be what I see. It just is.

In the morning I’m like a cat—arching everything about me, skiddish, whimpering and complaining. I am staying with my parents; I left my window open up in Sierra Madre and breathed the smoke all night, and it gave me a fever of 102. I’m better now, just an old-woman cough left over.

I snap about 10 times, at everyone, before I apologize. I get this way when things are out of my control. We can’t see the sun because of the smoke, and nobody, not the weatherman, not the news anchors who enthusiastically interview evacuee after evacuee, can tell us when it will change.

But by afternoon we don’t even look up, it’s just a sort of hot fog that goes unnoticed. At school, everyone is hanging up bulletin boards and talking about summer and not one person mentions the fires, so I don’t either, because it seems too obvious, like stating the day of the week.

And at night Dad says he really wants to get better, in a voice that sounds like his old voice, almost crying. I immediately believe him, with my whole heart, which makes everyone, but mostly me, immediately angry.

That’s when I walk outside and look at the moon, which is pumpkin orange. Glitter Halloween greeting-card orange. And the smoke makes me a little sleepy and everything is so still. And I have to talk through in my head, actually speak to myself. This is not the moon. This is not the sky.