4/26/2007

Live and let guys do their thing


Hm. How often do cougars hunt near this waterfall? That cliff could make a good launching platform for a pounce.

Such thoughts made me pace, hands in pockets, across a wide spot in the path beside Henline Falls. Phobic me. I’m becoming no fun on wilderness hikes.

I mused about cougars and other large predators while Tim and our son explored an abandoned mineshaft, originally blasted into the hillside last century in a failed quest for silver. I’d scrambled over mossy boulders with the guys to trail behind them a ways into the tunnel. It took me moments to decide I’d rather wait outside.

In there the blackness, bit by Tim’s flashlight beam, had smelled musty. As if animals had explored (maybe hibernated, I wondered; maybe were still hibernating, wishing to be left alone…?!) over the recent winter.

Now I tried in vain to calm feverish imaginings. Somehow my mind wanted to bet me I would first see Tim’s panic-stricken form, with our son pushing from behind when they burst out of the cave calling, “Yeeaahh! Bear!” I reminded myself of my son’s longer legs – he’d surely be in front.

What I lacked and must unearth from somewhere, I realized, was sensible thinking. Look around at what you’re missing, I thought. Let the waterfall’s mists refresh you. Breathe the greenery-oxygenated air.

If I’d been able to relax, I might’ve exuded poetry about lovely, cascading river-voices warbling in constant cadence. Instead I muttered, “Wish I could turn that thing off.”

Standing by while men forge into possible danger has historically been the lot of women. While a twenty-year-younger me refused staying home whenever guys went “out there” seeking adventure, these days I find I dwell among a sisterhood. We say, “No bathroom where you’re going? Miles from wireless? Not packing chocolate? Count me out.”

I can see there was less choice and more restriction involved for women back when a Man wouldn’t consider climbing mountains with a mere girl. From clothing to domestic duties, those of female gender were expected to fit a certain role, often narrow as a corset-cinched waist.

Even today, though, when women do most everything, it’s typically guys who launch into grimy reality and bring back the biggest fish stories. (Lately we watch these programs: Survivorman and Man vs. Wild.) Like Tim and my son sloshing down an old mineshaft, they are drawn (prodded by testosterone?) to shouldering their way forward, despite muck and myth and the fears of wifely mothers.

Growing up, I didn’t want to be girlishly fearful. But I don’t think I’d ever have applied for military service. Vietnam scared me to pieces, because I loved my younger brothers and never wanted to lose them to the draft, to guns of war.

A friend of mine has two sons, both Marines, and both were stationed in Iraq for several months. While I agree with her that their decisions to serve were honorable, I don’t know how I’d have managed in her place. It’s just hard to send someone, anyone, into situations where even testosterone gets blown to bits on a clear day’s whim.

And yet lives end. Every day. Anywhere. For men in battle or wilderness, for moms pulling towels from the dryer. I need to be glad for life. It’s mine at a stage of estrogen-episodes, and it belongs to the driven, adventurous males in my world, as long as it’s granted. To be lived.

By the time my guys emerged that day from the bowels of granite near Henline Falls it occurred to me there was too much standing water on the tunnel floor for animals to bed there. Oh, well. Senility happens. Although Tim had ripped one of his galoshes, the men looked satisfied. I resumed our hike, breathing, gazing skyward without fear.

4/21/2007

What d'you know?

This surprised me.

I knew I'd be included in the author list, but not with my story as an Editor's Choice. Woohoo! If (and only if) you already want to buy a copy, I'd be obliged if you click here, or on the Relief sidebar link there to the right. Then Tim and I'll be able to manage our kids' college tuition.

4/19/2007

More than other times

Sometimes, being married to an engineer means not having anything new, because handiness is his middle name, and he keeps fixing things so they run forever. Or his connections in the techno-electronical world make him able to bring home another older-style gizmo to surprise you with.

And sometimes, you appreciate the gift more than other times.

Tim brought me a monitor today. Not a flat screen, micron-thin panel do-jobby, but one with light behind the images and the words. What a difference!

I love that geeky guy.

4/18/2007

Clearly dim

The weather changes these spring afternoons as often as channels on a remote-wielding husband’s TV. I start out wearing my new, hoodless corduroy jacket in blossom-like sunshine and end up racing, pummeled by hailstones, to reach a safe doorway.

Right now blue skies tempt out the window, but I’m pasted to my chair before the monitor screen. It’s because my monitor, upon noticing I looked up prices of new ones this morning, decided to brighten itself uncharacteristically.

I don’t notice how dim this appliance grows lately until suddenly blog photos exude color, and the words – how I love perusing reflectful thoughts printed in eye-easy contrast – they sparkle, black on bright white! What luxury.

I do need to find a reliable monitor, seeing as this dear one tries but will certainly darken again in an hour or so.

Thing is, my birthday’s coming, and I may receive some cash, but what I’d really like to purchase is a digital camera. Anyone out there know of a good deal? Maybe a monitor/camera bundle for fifty bucks? Free shipping? Ah, well.

I might just as well purchase a lake that’s going on sale east of here.

A recent news story told how the folks who own a resort on Clear Lake, at the headwater of the McKenzie River, may soon be selling. It’s a wonderful spot, pristine, with an encircling trail.



Here we are last summer, on a hike around Clear Lake. (Tim recently got his roll of film developed from back then. Oh, for a digital pix-taker!)



That’s me at Great Springs, with my fingers in icy bubbles that surge from underground to begin the enchanting waters where my dad and Richard Brautigan trout fished fifty years ago in America.

4/16/2007

Establishment's downfall

~~Sin contaminates God-given goodness.
God-given goodness contaminates sin
.~~

Our guest speaker at church yesterday, Earle Craig, gave us the above sentences. His context was contrasts between individual Christians and the Christian groups they belong to.

I’ve changed the word Craig used – righteousness – to a phrase, God-given goodness. I did so because “righteous” is traditionally a religious term. As Craig pointed out, tradition often keeps those of us who practice religion asleep.

Craig based his talk on a lengthy passage from Practice in Christianity by Søren Kierkegaard. Kierkegaard speaks of “the deification of the established order.” In a masterful piece, as Craig ably helped us see, S.K. describes the timeless face of people who assemble in groups. Quite naturally that’s me.

I am an institutionalized being. (While it’s likely true I should be placed in a home for women of fuzzy brains, that’s not what I’m talking about.) Daycare, public school, Sunday school, and volunteer groups, I’ve done them all. I need community, and that’s okay. I’ve also gone right along when my group settled. Established. Became content. I’ve been first in line lots of times for self-righteousness award ceremonies.

In terms of faith, especially, I’ve wanted to know I had it all down. I then encouraged whoever couldn’t escape listening to join me in my rightness, my purity of understanding.

Even when I broke to a large degree with church traditions, I let my audience know they ought to come along this way. I’ve got it right this time for sure, my winking attitude smugged.

I’ve begun, I think, to notice, as Earle Craig’s message implied, there is a major, good thing going on inside me. Kierkegaard called the good thing “inwardness.” He, as well as Mr. Craig, and I, are reminded this good thing comes not from myself but is God-provided. It contaminates the me who sins, while I am unable, I have to admit, to keep my sin from contaminating the good thing.

This tension exists, apparently, because God chose to plunk each of us in the midst of conflict between the good we want and the bad we are, for the duration. Why? I can’t say.

Kierkegaard’s established order, the same as my institutions, falls for the blissful idea of escape. No more conflict. My group’s got it right. We even codified our exactitude in a doctrinal statement. If you, as a member of my group, dare to question or (gasp) disagree with our doctrine, well… (eyes narrowing) we have to tell you that kind of uppitiness ain’t thought much of ‘round these parts.

So it’s gone for thousands of years, and for my forty-six. I don’t want to see that mussed-up corner in the quilt of God-given goodness covering me. But I can’t quite smooth it down. Honesty admits there’s more to do, every day and for all the days left.

Still, in those moments I nearly smother from the mussedness of the way I’ve mucked reality, I find a stronger hand takes hold and straightens. Not finished, yet, but calm down, now. It will be.

4/09/2007

What fun! An award, and passing it on

I got tagged by a very neat person, Marianne. She graduated from Gutenberg, which takes some doing anyway, but in the process of earning her degree, she got married and had a baby. Where the energy came from, I can't help but wonder.

As it turns out, she's a new blogger, and a thinking one at that. She thinks my blog makes her think, so what do you think? There's this meme going around that lets us award each other for being thoughtful.

Now I get to think about five blogs that make me think, and nominate them, as well. My first impulse would have been Cherie, but she's already a nominee. I would add my daughter Victoria's blog for its wise musings, but I see it's now set for private viewing only. Here are my next five favorite thoughtful-types:

1. Angela. A writer, mom, and deep thinker, who doesn't take herself too seriously. She's a gift and a kick.

2. Erin. She would have won a bloggie award if there'd been a recount (or I made that up). Another wise young one, and hilarious a lot of times, too.

3. Leisel. She works at a studio in L.A., teaches Sunday school, and drives a dead man's Honda. She also has quite a heart for people in need, close by or far away. Plus her stories make you crack up.

4. Dorcas. She writes newspaper columns and books, while raising five children with her minister husband. She makes me think being Mennonite might be fun.

5. J. Mark Bertrand. A writer, editor, and smart guy. His was one of the first blogs I discovered along this journey of conversations that made me think. Oh, and he likes Dr. Who.

Here are the participation rules:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme,
3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (silver or gold version).

Conversational expression

Yesterday before dawn I lay in bed listening to three men’s voices from the other room. Tim, our son, and our nephew got themselves ready to hike up Spencer Butte, south of town, for a view of Easter sunrise.

This year I didn’t go. I’d imagined myself flinging off covers and emerging to hover and encourage them out the door, but lying there, at rest and very at peace with staying home, I smiled. They were doing fine without me.

After Tim reentered our room for a kiss goodbye, I lay a while longer, thinking. About blogging. The morning we celebrate Christ’s resurrection, the cornerstone of my faith, I had on the brain the question of why I blog.

To blog is to… what?

That’s been my quandary, ever since I first attempted this method of expression, nearly a year ago. I’ve needed to figure out what it is I’m doing and why I want to. I’ve tried on many answers and discarded them. Every week, it seems, I get the urge to push that button in the Settings asking “Delete This Blog?”

But yesterday, in quiet warmth under my covers, I remembered what talking on the phone was like back when we lived east of Coos Bay. Our rented home sat on a hillside, just above Old Wagon Road. I loved walking with toddler Victoria along the lane. Wind in the treetops, a goat munching our neighbor’s field, roosters making sure we knew it was daytime long after 6:00 a.m.

Out there, the only affordable phone service was a party line. No, the receiver didn’t use a hand crank on the wall, but that would have fit the quaintness. And while it was supposed to be an upgraded shared service, with no one really able to listen in on anothers’ calls, you knew it had to be possible. Someone down the road could pick up when you were talking to your best friend about life’s ups and downs. A stranger might be listening.

While the possibility didn’t keep me from talking, I was glad upon moving to town to get private phone service again. Normal for me has not been sharing my life with a large group, whether or not I know each member of it. And yet, my need for conversation in the country remained greater than a desire for privacy. It does now, too, even when I hear worried rumors of “big brother”-type phone monitoring.

My conclusion about blogging, in the wee hours of Easter morning, was, “Yep. It’s a conversation.” This time I’d signed up for the party line on purpose. I wanted people to “hear” me conversing about my life. The medium, writing, drew me. It always does. I wanted to be here, to see what was going on, and I discovered it is a written conversation.

Other bloggers have kept me active and prevented my pushing the delete button just yet. I enjoyed their conversations, even when their much more brilliant expressions caused me inner despair. Like the wallflower I’ve always been, I don’t know the moves. Sniff.

But when I read back over my blog, I like it. And sometimes a post has touched another person. It even looks like a few bloggers share my ambivalent, delete-button pushing mood swings. We keep going, for now, trying out this latest expansion in the history of conversation.

I did arise on Easter morning, showered, ironed my prettiest dress, and ate a banana. Then the guys returned, their effort a success on a clear-skied pinnacle. At church we sang and listened to an amazing message, and consumed mass quantities of food. And all day long, my friends and family and I conversed the old-fashioned way.

4/06/2007

My brother's pike place

My baby bro in Seattle has begun an adventure. He's always collected elegant things, and now he and his partner have a space on weekends to display and sell some of them.



Awesome antiques, huh? At Pike Place market you can see them.



Wish I could go... maybe come summer.

4/03/2007

An excerpt

Here’s a bit from my latest project, that of writing my story, my journey. It takes place years ago, just after my family began attending a church called Reformation Fellowship.

Women’s night arrived one Wednesday, and I pulled up in front of Miffy’s home at dusk, backing and straightening the car several times while thinking maybe I shouldn’t try this. What sort of group was I about to step into? What if they didn’t appreciate my presumption upon them? I’d never learned to banter well with other females and didn’t care much for crafts, decorations, and recipe exchanges.

Still, I imagined the approach to Bible study from church and McKenzie Study Center classes might be utilized here. I had to find out what these women did together.

After Miffy greeted me at the door – petite, stylish, and vivacious – I was ushered into her family room, where women sat in overstuffed chairs or propped by pillows on the floor. Soft light and quiet music made the space welcoming. Women’s voices hummed in relaxed cadence. I filled a mug with steaming water for tea and sat down.

And that was it. All evening, we spent the time together. No program. No agenda, other than to be in one another’s company.

Robby sat opposite me. She introduced me to Kristie, Cindy, and Susan. They had kids in the age ranges of mine. I asked a few questions about their stories of becoming involved with Reformation.

Later, four or five younger women came in. Mothers of little ones, mostly, they didn’t pause to knock but entered Miffy’s place like a breeze, exhaling their enjoyment of this once-a-month evening away from regularness.

I finally kicked off my shoes and pulled my feet under me, listening. I learned, but not about specific biblical passages. This was a space for women, a time for cessation, release, rest.

At home I told Tim, “These ladies know how to relax.”

Featured Post

New Playroom

I've been consumed for a few years by care for my parents, so writing has fallen by the wayside. In and for my heart, this has become a ...