Amid imperfection

Why do I do this? Why is this me?

Such thoughts filled my brain as I drove north on Interstate 5, awash with anxiety. In the passenger seat Tim dozed. Behind me our son absorbed music through headphones and watched farmland scenery pass by.

I'd spent the morning ticking off lists in my head and trying to do five things at once, getting ready for a two-night campout. Tim worked until early afternoon, then came home and loaded our conglomerated stuff neatly into the rear of the van. As my husband thought of many last minute activities I rechecked the dog and cat's ample supplies (they remain home when we go, their pet door a handy access to the back yard), all the while becoming more tense.

I'm a master at envisioning terrible scenes of car crashes, natural disasters, and, heaven forbid, forgetting the ketchup. It all comes, I guess, of wanting to do things right. I've always sought perfection. I've lived long enough to learn it's a slippery devil.

By the time I turned off I-5 and pointed us northeast toward the Santiam Pass area near Mt. Jefferson's wilderness, I wondered if maybe I should give up. If every time we go somewhere woodsy I have to anticipate ruin and tighten my muscles like the Sunday paper's rubber band, maybe this isn't good for me. Maybe getting away isn't worth it. Next time, I thought, I'll tell the guys sorry. I'll stay home.

Right then a bald eagle flew across the road yards ahead of us, just above eye level.

"Hey!" I yelled. "Look!" I stabbed the side window as Tim and my son caught sight of its snow-feathered tail and magnificent wingspan disappearing over a field.

My insides began to unwind.

Today I catch up at home. Our van is checked in to the mechanic's shop, because its engine began behaving badly after our second hike. We didn't know the road up to the hike would be so steep and potholed, or that the van would be nabbed by anxiety and flash its ominous "Service Engine Soon" light and refuse to offer much horsepower for the return trip home (fortunately Tim drove, and it was mostly downhill).

I didn't know how breath-catching the sunlit forest would be, or how the 360-degree blue-skied view atop Triangulation Peak would remain etched into my psyche to soothe every nerve, even though my camera batteries died before I could get a single shot(!). Warmer air than should have been possible lingered both evenings, as we sat on camp chairs talking into the dusky hours, enjoying the world sans plug-ins and traffic noise.

It all stimulated thoughts from my recent Kierkegaard readings, which if I've understood speak of living as an individual before God and life. No faith exists without risk. And so to attempt being who I am entails discomfort. But how the bright spots linger amid this imperfection.

So here are some imperfect pictures (as in, taken by Tim's low res digital camera). Fill in the missing pixels with imagination, while I go peek at tonight's beautiful full moon.

Tim found Boca Cave after descending a scrambly slope.


He shot me on top of the world.


It was pretty.

Bookish

Heading home late Thursday night after a writers meeting in Salem I detoured to the Barnes & Noble parking lot, to see how they fared.

They were undeterred by headless figures looming behind. All night they'd keep their vigil, and in the morning they would be granted prominent places in line for the next night's extravaganza.

This morning the world is silent as my son and his friends read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

For today

Let me keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work, which is mostly standing still
and learning to be astonished.

-- Mary Oliver, from "Messenger"

Almost a record

I sort of planned to blog seven days in a row. On something of a roll I'd been and thought, I could do this one whole week.

But then yesterday morning I awoke, rested. Healthy of limb and emotion. It occurred to me I hadn't driven up the McKenzie River yet this season.

So I talked my son into a hike (took all of three seconds). We picked up my nephew Nick. Followed where the road beckoned eastward, crossed a mountain pass. Traversed a wilderness trail seven miles.

Sorry, blogging, you're fun, but few things top views from alpine meadows and a moraine.





(That last one's Mt. Jefferson, and the craggily-shaped one before it is Three Fingered Jack.)

Classy education

Recovering from a fever one day last week this was my view.I got a lot read and have since finished the book.

This provided good study for my spiritual memoir-writing journey. Lauren Winner's got class. And a whole lot of brain cells.

She became an Orthodox Jew during college. In graduate school she converted to Christianity. Since then she's been pondering intersections of the two faiths.

I struggle a bit with Winner's age. When she reminisces about her childhood, I can't help noticing she mentions the years I was changing my own kids' diapers. I'll bet she thinks vinyl records are giant CDs.

Calm down, I tell myself. This is okay. Writers span the spectrum of ages. Remember Madeleine L'Engle, C.S. Lewis. They weren't exactly sprouts when publication found them. Besides, Ms. Winner has focused her time in the realm of academia. Wise beyond her years in letters, she'll have to catch up should family-rearing find her.

It's all relative, right? Relax. Eat chocolate. Read more Kierkegaard.

Institutionalize me

Human compassion does indeed do something for them that labor and are heavy laden. One feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, gives alms, builds charitable institutions, and, if compassion is more heartfelt, one also visits them that labor and are heavy laden. But to invite them to come to us, that is a thing that cannot be done; it would involve a change in all our household and manner of life. It is not possible while one is living in abundance, or at least in joy and gladness, to live and dwell together in the same house, in a common life in daily intercourse, with the poor and wretched, with them that labor and are heavy laden. In order to be able to invite them thus one must live entirely in the same way, as poor as the poorest, as slightly regarded as the lowliest man of the people, familiar with life's sorrows and anguish, sharing completely the same conditions as they whom one invites to one's home, namely they that labor and are heavy laden.
-- Søren Kierkegaard, from Training in Christianity in A Kierkegaard Anthology (Bretall)

A writer, an artist, a philosopher, one of my heroes. Kierkegaard. I will be privileged to study works of his, along with accompanying Bible passages, for a whole week in August at the Gutenberg Summer Institute.

It's like finding my cupboard full of chocolate chips and red licorice.

Mom thoughts

I am thankful.

Thankful, thankful, thankful, to the full, that I had kids.

Not because everything's settled with them or finished or even necessarily great right now. But right now, on this evening blanketed by warm, I gratefully recognize they were a gift I needed. I would have always needed that gift of being a mother to children of my body, whether or not it would have been given. I would have missed it all my days if God had chosen not to so give.

And the children God gave me--two, a wonderful number--one of each gender, a pleasing variety--couldn't and can't have blessed me more. My daughter and my son are special, each in their own way. Their lives have opened up my life.

So, times get hard. And I long for Tim and me to be alone again (an amazing gift in itself). But, exactly. That's life exactly. Shades and textures. Good flavors and bad. Hanging on. Sometimes letting go.

My son doesn't know what he thinks about God right now, and I don't know what I think about what he's thinking. But he is honest, and I, though worried, am glad. Life will go on.

May I remain thankful.

A possible definition

Maturity:
Experience with wrinkles.
(But we're young yet, yes?)

Paradise?

I experienced a thrill, several years ago, after we started attending a church where Bible geeks abounded.

Woohoo, I thought, imagining the way get-togethers with these folks must go. I saw myself arriving at a church picnic and plopping down with friends under a spreading maple near the river. One of our Sunday teachers walked up next in my dreamy scenario, took his place on a blanket, and began to impart hours’ worth of biblical wisdom. We students sprawled around him, tearing bits of grass from the earth while pondering words, contexts, possibilities.

Ah. Bliss.

Real life, however, has looked somewhat different. I attend events with our church group and savor the textures of pasta salads, rice and bean concoctions, and marbled cheesecakes. Friends now long-known ask how I’m doing and I answer, “Pretty good. You? Nice weather today.”

My wise/geeky teachers prepare papers for church and seminars; they “tutor” at great-books Gutenberg all school year; and then they’re available for my random (and rambling) questions after I’ve attempted to study Galatians 2. I wonder whether Paul meant something good when he said he tore down the law.

The next time I corner someone I lay out possible reasonings for what Jesus prayed aloud in Matthew 11. Then I’m into John 8, casting about for a precise definition of the truth making us free.

This manner of instruction I receive doesn’t fit my ideal picture of soaking up life-speak at my leisure. Regular events and busyness force me to shape my thoughts in private and remember the important points – the heart of what I’m grasping at – so I can retrieve and discuss it with smatters of coherency.

I sigh again sometimes over my long lost image of wise counsels spooned on summer breezes. But I think the grittier study-path I wander may be the right one for a particular process I’m supposed to work on. Good work. To follow every season while it lasts.

My weekend

I sit on the floor, large boxes circling. Faded t-shirts and Christmas tablecloths nudge over the sides. I lift one, fold, tuck it back in. My son will ride in the van with me to the Goodwill donation center. A cheerful, muscular guy with one silver earring will ask if I'd like a receipt.

I recline in the chair, feet up, recent memories lilting. A warm, dark forest and still-watered pool. Footfalls as four of us found rhythms on an earnest climb. Friendships strengthened and acquaintances sparked new yesterday.

I ride in the Fox truck, garage sale signs directing. My husband's fetish, my enjoyment at his side. A book is found. A dog story. I pay for it with coins taken in at our last week's sale.

I perch on my office chair, blogger missives opening. Tangible in my head, the workings out of lives I can connect with, slightly. Tiny bits are shared. Imagination orders them, hikes with them, learns their fetishes. Wishes them real.

My quiz results... oh, and happy Independence Day

71%How Addicted to Blogging Are You?
Thanks, Cecily, for sharing this. Fun!