stay with it.

Poetry is just images

in some ways it is empty.

But the window--

the white lights' reflection

strung against the mountain line

cut across the sky--

exists, and speaks so eloquently

exactly what I've been wanting to tell you

all along.

for everything you learn, there's something you must let go of

I saw The Swell Season on Thursday. I have to say-- the most incredible concert ever. Pretty sure it tops everything else--even Good Charlotte.

...okay, I've obviously kidding. I wish I were kidding about having seen Good Charlotte, but sadly I'm only kidding about that GC show being near the top of my list. Truthfully, and more seriously, this show topped Bela Fleck at Spreckels and Jon Brion at Largo. And yes, that's a bold claim.

The old Frames' stuff was my favorite part of the whole night...there's something so incredible about their lyrics, something so cool and subversively spiritual. I like that kind of lyricism the best, because when the spirituality is a little bit buried underneath something, oddly, it always seems like there's more there. That's when the important parts come through: redemption, creative love, creation, and humility.

When he introduced "Backbroke," and explained that it was about finding peace in the midst of hellish situations, Glen Hansard prefaced the song by claiming,

"I'm not a spiritual person, really, but this song describes the feeling of an old Irish song, 'Dancing at the Feet of my Lord', which I think is the most beautiful title for any song ever written, and the most beautiful description of peace I've ever heard."

Before he started the song, he said rather quietly, away from his mic, "so...here," and gestured sheepishly up toward the ceiling with his free hand. The look of his face was pretty indescribable, the most humble I've seen anybody look in a long time. There was more worship in that action that in 95% of the 'worship' I've seen. And, for better or for worse, I've seen plenty of people gettin' their worship on, if you know what I mean. I was a camp counselor, for goodness sake.

Listen to "Red Cord" and "People Get Ready"and "Backbroke" and you'll know what I mean. I think, anyway. I hope you do.

And then listen to everything else, too, please.

seeing visions, dreaming dreams

Three short reflections on Narrative

1. I end up teaching narrative every year, it seems. You know, Freytag’s pyramid, what we all expect out of a story? It's always kind of hard for me to teach, because we have to know that a clear, cohesive plot structure exists, that’s good. But the genius is not found in following the plot structure. The genius is found in those who break, abuse, dismiss, reject the traditional. Just like good grammar, scansion of poetry, 5 paragraph essay structure. You have to learn it, then you have to learn how to go past it. You have to understand it so you can use it as a tool, not as law. It's hard to explain the ambiguity to 7th graders.

2. For quite some time now, I’ve had an eventual dream about running a program which teaches writing to battered/underpriviledged women. To some, it may sound ridiculous: why would women with so much physical need even care about a skill like writing? To me, though, writing is sanity. It is also power, and extremely empowering. Even in the most desperate, hurtful and potentially scarring situations, I write. This is the thing that matters about writing: The story is one you are telling, you are the creator, and the way you see things, they way you tell them, is in your control. To give this gift to women who, their whole life, have been told they have nothing to say--to give them voice--this would be amazing.

3. My pastor read an excerpt from a Donald Miller book on Sunday about the story that we live out. The point was that when we feel we have no control over what choices we make, we reach for the story which looks the most convenient, or the easiest, or the most comfortable, even if it is a story of self-harm and brokenness.

This obviously makes me think of my dad. He already is an excellent writer and thinker; he already knows all about the structure and the power of narrative, the kind on paper. But I don’t think he understands or ever understood the power of narrative as a shaping tool for life. I think, when he found himself in the hospital, discouraged and disappointed with his job and his life, sick in his body and his soul, he had reached the end of the narrative he knew how to live. And even when he came back home to heal, he saw nothing except more of the same: years of loneliness and sadness, stretching out into oblivion. He saw no better story, and so he fell into a story of illness and pain. A pattern of inflicting that pain on the people closest to him. A different story than he had ever lived before, something none of us saw coming, but the one which seemed to fit. And now, he lives that story, I must say, very well.

When I realize this, of course I become angry first, angry the he was not creative, spiritual or resourceful enough to grasp other options, But then, I wonder, perhaps it is not a solo endeavor, this creation of story. Perhaps we are responsible for one another’s story, for participation, for providing vision. Perhaps that’s as good as any an expression of what it means to follow Christ—isn’t that what Christ provided on earth? A new way to approach enemies, riches, pleasure, death…life in general—a new version of the story of humanity?

I want to give vision to Dad’s story, I want to write it all down for him, present it, make it easy to step out of what he’s become and into something whole and beautiful. But even as I write, I know that I will never be able to craft his life into anything—he’s got to do that himself. As impossible as it feels, I can only attempt to keep being a participant who brings reminder of Love, Grace, and Purpose.

Besides, it’s easy to bemoan the loss of vision in the people around us—it’s hard to focus on our own narrative. It’s hard when I love my job, and yet know I promised myself an adventure this very next year, which all of a sudden seems to be tugging at my hem, saying, remember me? Remember how you swore you’d go back to school? Move to a brand new city? Well?

And I realize I don’t know how to live a perfect story, but maybe that's okay. I think about Freitag’s pyramid, and my 7^th graders gasping at the end of Ray Bradbury's "All Summer in a Day", referring to their neatly drawn pyramids, pencils ready for the resolution, mouths gaping, confused that the loose ends were not neatly tied up. We have expectations for how stories should go.

But it's a more powerful story with the ending this way, I hear myself explain to the class. The imperfection in the story- This is what brings the theme, and the meaning, to the story. And I wonder if I believe what I'm teaching.

angelica

There's a strange man bent over the garden

headphones in, world blocked out,

planting perennials one by one,

counting the money somebody will pay

for the services he can provide.

He bobs his head to the music,

bored with the dirt and the color and

the smell of the grass.

Angelica loved this garden.

That was the first thing she said

after she said we were beautiful

and lovely, and she would be happy to

have us at her tenants.

Angelica is a weed of a woman

tall enough to appear unbalanced

on tiny legs, her black hair flying

she speaks English cautiously, with

hums and sighs punctuating,

filling the space when she searches for words.

She used to bring out her gardening stool

in the afternoons, kneel, face stern

speak with the dirt.

The sort of relationship seldom seen:

a language without words, total peace.

no need to search for the correct tense

everything already understood.

And really, for an apartment lawn

everything was shockingly alive

we always said so when we saw her

and she just smiled.

This morning, Manny and I agree:

when people are depressed,

they don't see what they have

even all the beautiful things growing

right around them, in the spring.

But we must not take it

so personally. It is a disease.

She has lost, he says,

30 pounds. I picture

what would be left of her,

in a hospital bed. I tell him

that the garden does not look the same.

more nice music.

I actually try hard soooo hard not to post lyrics. It seems like a waste of time, plus, if I posted all the lyrics I wanted to, that's all this blog would be, because I'm constantly hearing strains of stuff and loving them in that 'ahhhhhhsooogooood' heartachy kind of way.

Anyway, this is different for some reason. This is a really good song for a birthday, and I love the way she sings the first line.

Sorry I was cruel, I was protecting myself

Drifting along with my swords out, flying

Tattering my own sails, and I tattered yours, too

Took you and wrapped you around me like a spell.

Oh, how the night drags on, oh

but I think I see a pink light and the coming of dawn

Oh, how the night drags on, oh

but in the fading of the constellations I am growing strong

In the fading of the constellations, I am growing strong.

In the fading of the constellations, I am growing strong.

Laura Veirs, Pink Light

While we're on the subject of heartachy-good music: Lauridsen: Lux Æterna. Whenever I need total peace, this is what I listen to. The pieces are very similar to what we sang in my college choir. It's very fun to listen to something beautiful and know exactly how difficult it is to achieve that sound. It always makes me miss singing. Incredibly beautiful music.

nice music.

Need a lift? Listen to Kick-drum Heart, off The Avett Brothers' new CD. Makes me really happy.

Heck, just listen to the whole record. It's pretty lovely, I think.

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.