Salt-Rain Tidings

Gogyohka-Thursday [72]

2012-02-09T23:24:00.001-05:00

a tender tart

on a table tarries

anticipating

enticing

a traveler to taste

Gogyohka-Thursday [71]

2012-02-02T23:37:00.000-05:00

"Stop thinking," she urged.

Stop thinking.

Silence my whirling heart,

racing through a thousand

yet unspent days.

Gogyohka-Thursday [70]

2012-01-26T23:31:00.003-05:00

Studying. Squirm.

Late at the Library. Yawn.

Deserted aisles of books...

Irresistible.

Sometimes... I run in Libraries.

Gogyohka-Thursday [69]

2012-01-19T23:41:00.002-05:00

They were a well-suited couple.

They screened their eyes

like they shielded their hearts

from the sight

of a watching world.

Gogyohka-Thursday [68]

2012-01-12T16:47:00.001-05:00

Not enough time left

to pack up my room

to meet every appointment

to make every phone-call

and still say good-bye slowly

I find my sister's arms

often stealing around me

as if their encircling warmth

could keep me home

a few minutes longer...

Gogyohka-Thursday [67]

2012-01-05T11:40:00.000-05:00

Down the hat aisle we descend

and don't return for an hour.

If hats are dungeons

I was a hostage.

Dangerous, those hats are.

2012-01-01T21:29:00.001-05:00

He is the SHEPHERD OF MY HEART
He watches over me so tenderly, constantly
And I rest easy in His care...

He is the CHAMPION OF MY SOUL
He conquers every doubt and fear for me, instantly
And every enemy I face/ Will be defeated by His grace...

He will deliver me
Because He loves me
Though I should walk through darkest night
He will deliver me

~from an old Nest Bible Story video (David & Goliath) song: unknown to the internet but beloved to my heart

Gogyohka-Thursday [66]

2011-12-29T15:23:00.000-05:00

A long, hard year at last closes

its weary eyes with a sigh.

The salt-rain slips and falls-

and kisses the sere earth,

sent sleeping till spring.

Gogyohka-Thursday [65]

2011-12-22T13:22:00.000-05:00

Guest Gogyohka by Tim Edelblut.

Mom hears from the kitchen:

Piano, guitar, (bad) harmonies,

and the bongo...?

We make music

Wherever we are together.

Painting: Family Making Music by Jan Miense Molenaer

Gogyohka-Thursday [64]

2011-12-15T19:36:00.003-05:00

Orbiting.

Every year-

Déjà vu!

Have I been here

before?

Gogyohka-Thursday [63]

2011-12-08T20:24:00.003-05:00

He was a cutie.

'Smart dresser.

'a smiler, too...

and could shoot a Polaroid like a pro...

But alas. Too young for me.

Gogyohka-Thursday [62]

2011-12-01T16:28:00.001-05:00

halls of brilliant, modern white

first I wanted a camera

then a notebook

then my best friend

to walk in the stillness with

P.S. I can't tell if I want it to be "walk in the stillness with " or "break the stillness with" ... You tell me- can I have both? ;-)

*Image, Dia Beacon - Walter de Maria: The Equal Area Series

:THANKFUL:

2011-11-24T19:26:00.002-05:00

Every year brings new things to be thankful for... sometimes bountiful blessing... sometimes trials seen safely through...

As I and my wonderful family sat around the laden table this Thanksgiving, in turn, as so moved, we touched our utensils to our wine glasses- signalling a toast- and were thankful.

We were thankful for two upcoming weddings- for spouses- for special relationships- for parents- for family- my ninety-four year old great-grandmother (with tears in her eyes) was thankful for one more year with all of us (and we, thankful, hope for yet another with her).

I too have many things to be thankful for. Too many to name.

But at this particular moment, tonight, I am thankful for two. I'm thankful-

to get to play Pinochle with my ninety-seven year old great-grandfather...

to hear my great-grandmother asked me, "Won't you play for me before I go?"

I played three songs for her- My Father's Favorite, Moon River, and As Time Goes By. She sat near the piano and listened as I played and murmured the words.

You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.

Gogyohka-Thursday [61]

2011-11-24T08:29:00.000-05:00

it is easy to wait

when you know for how long

but these endless

passing days

teach patience

Gogyohka-Thursday Sorta-Kinda [60]

2011-11-17T20:22:00.001-05:00

This is me. 'Wrestling with Gogyohka-theory right here. See Gogyohka - 五行歌 [An Intro].

I didn't have time

for a five-line Gogyohka,

so I wrote a four-liner instead.

Someday I'll ask Enta if that's ok.

Metropolitan Meetings

2011-11-13T14:47:00.003-05:00

"Are you a fan of Gustave Moreau?" That's how the first conversation began. I have the most delightful meetings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I think that's one of the reasons I love it. Since I am usually there by myself, and beauty is enjoyed best in company, I am forced to find a second to make company with wherever I go.

I was there for the forth time in a year just the other day. I wandered my favorite gallery, listened to my heels echo on the wood floors of empty galleries, delighted in my new appreciation for (and recognition of!) countless artists- de Chavannes, Goughan, Seurat, Manet, Degas, Latrec, Moreau, Van Gogh, and Klimt! When I grew hungry I grabbed some shawarma off a street vendor in front of the museum and watched an a cappella group perform on the sidewalk. The Met always sounds a bit like an airport- with countless nationalities buzzing about. But that day it was pervasively French- even my teacher noticed it- it seemed every other person was French! But oh, it was delightful. French couples. French families. French old ladies. French ten-year-old girls- sassing each other in French (charmingly adorable?). And more thrilling still- all the French voices murmuring all the French artist names. They sounded lovely rolling off their tongues.

I had been sitting in front of Moreau's Oedipus & The Sphinx for quite some time when a man- about fifty with gray hair and stubble, but with a youthful intrepidity about him- stopped , stooped, and queried, "Are you a fan of Gustave Moreau?"

I explained to him the nature of my paper- that I was making a case that he was not a Post-Impressionist, etc, etc, and this set him off on Moreau-rhapsodies. He agreed with me very much and told me he'd been to the Musée national Gustave Moreau in Paris and seen Moreau's countless paintings.

"I wish you could see this one- he has so many Aztec themes..." He looked around for his camera but remembered those particular pictures no longer on it. "It's just not normal to see somebody sit in front of a painting for forty-five minutes" he told me by way of explanation. We compared Moreau with Post-Impressionist work- and the man again tried to communicate the depth of detail he had seen in this one painting.

"Oh, Jupiter and Semele?" I suggested.

"Yes! That's the one!" (I can't tell you how pleased I was to know the painting's name). He told me I really should see the Moreau museum some day- I said I would if I got the chance. And we parted. And I stared at Moreau's collosal painting for another forty-five minutes.

For the "Master Painters of India" exhibit the Met had- get this- a whole bunch of magnifying glasses for patrons to make use of. And use one I did! The Rajput paintings were unbelievably detailed- with the gems of the tiny figure's jewelry practically indistinguishable to the naked eye.

Then, as I was perusing, I saw on a wall a blown-up photograph of India. I read the small description and let out a low laugh. Bundi, Rajasthan. A young guy (the only other person around at the time) turned around and said something, or simply looked, inquisitive.

"Bundi Rajasthan," I explained, "I've been there." (Do you know the feeling? Of meeting a friend- someone familiar- unexpectedly in a far away place?)

He smiled and replied rather matter-of-factly, "So have I. It's very beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

A few minutes later I was in the gift-shop and there was this older, earthy-women fingering the wool scarves. They were lovely Indian weaves- my fingers stole to the price-tag- $125. :Gulp: They would hike the prices up- even in the Indian airport the scarves that sold for $7 on the streets were a good $100. The woman was still fingering them- I felt compelled to say something.

"They're much cheaper in India."

She looked almost annoyed and said, very shortly in an accent- Italian, maybe- "I know. I go there every year. I was just comparing prices." She went back to her perusing- but presently turned to me again.

"Have you been to India?" (I have.) When? (2008). Where? (I told her).... It's beautiful, isn't it? It is. The pleasantries continued for a bit- and when parted and she called over her shoulder- "Maybe I will see you one of these days in India..." (In the Met more likely.)

I wandered some more and wove my way to the Robert Lehman Collection- where Renoir's Two Young Girls at a Piano resides. I looked at a Medieval exhibit- and at last- quite tired- sat down to soak in the atmosphere... I stared at the slits in the roofing- writing up details for my stories in my head. A woman- plainly dressed with short-cropped gray hair- sat down next to me. We sat. And sat. And at last she says to me, "Who did that painting down there-?" (She points about ten yards away...)

"I don't know- I'll go look," I respond cheerily, popping up. She murmured after me, "I'm too tired to get up..."

It was a Henri de Troulouse-Lautrec painting- I knew Lautrec- and I brought back the name to her. She knew him, too. Her English was jumbled- she was saying something about how it wasn't Lautrec's usual style (I agreed) usually he'd darker (I agreed)- usually he's clownish and dark as in- "Moulin Rouge?" I suggested, "Yes, that one!"

She proceeded to tell me that she and her husband were art-collectors. I asked her where she was from (she thought I was from Paris?!?) and she said she was from the West Coast- but originally from Israel. She and her husband had been in NYC for a week- this was their second day at the Met- and she's was sooo tired but they had to go to the opera that night (and she wasn't ready to leave for Paris in the morning). She fell to rambling about this collector and that exhibition and this other person and somehow or other she asked me about myself and I told her I wrote. She never did write- she had a math-mind.

Her husband came by and they linked arms- she said to me, looking for the words, "Success... what is it they say? Success in life to you!" And they were gone.

What is it they say? Success to you? You simply must see this? I'll see you again?

All this beauty...

I am reminded of something Timothy Keller said in one of his sermons... about how in Christ and Heaven we as Christians have before us the perfect romance- the most handsome prince- the loveliest wedding- a glorious battle and triumphant victory- awaiting, preparing, descending from Heaven. We need be not ashamed of loving fairy-tales. There is something beautiful and true in them: something that IS.

So you can see why I love the Met. For therein are centuries of visionaries, historians, and poets, people who, in the image of God, are creating just as they were created- capturing the beauty around them- wrestling with beauty- fixating on the truth of Beauty itself. And where such beauty dwells- there also walk the beauty-lovers.

If you were there- we'd delight together.

This post is for Mrs. Viar and Mrs. Petersen.
*Painting: First Steps (After Millet) by Van Gogh *Painting: Krishna Flirting with the Gopis, Purkhu (attributed to) *Painting: Two Girls at the Piano by Renoir

Gogyohka-Thursday [59]

2011-11-10T20:43:00.006-05:00

the words, like crumbs

falling, caught beneath the stones

the light, like birds

catching up what was

and is no more

Gogyohka-Thursday [58]

2011-11-03T21:36:00.002-04:00

five years ago

I had big dreams

and now I live realities

far better than anything

I ever dreamed of

Gogyohka-Thursday [57]

2011-10-27T14:40:00.000-04:00

my high-heeled boots

clopping irreverently

break the strained concentration

of countless

modern art connoisseurs

*Image of the painting Connoisseur by Norman Rockwell.

Gogyohka-Thursday [56]

2011-10-20T21:33:00.000-04:00

sometimes the shock

of a fiasco

we narrowly missed

is as sickening

as actually experiencing it

Gogyohka-Thursday [55]

2011-10-13T18:53:00.000-04:00

some people

are like fountains

cascading gentle wisdom

under whom we want to stay

and drink forever

Gogyohka-Thursday [54]

2011-10-06T20:09:00.000-04:00

This is another one of the poems published in May, 2009.

living

life

something

takes me back

to when sounds danced

*Photo Credit: Phil Marion.

Gogyohka-Friday [53]

2011-09-30T09:14:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry, very sorry.

You're shocked, I'm very sure.

But no one's more horrified than I

for forgetting this poem

for the first time in a year.

Gogyohka-Thursday [52]

2011-09-22T12:58:00.002-04:00

Oh, Father

how many times

must I fall

before I remember in You

I am free to fly?

*Photo Credit: Entrer dans le reve.

Isaiah 40:29 [Dabbling with photo-editing]

2011-09-17T23:14:00.000-04:00

He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength.

Gogyohka-Thursday [51]

2011-09-15T16:26:00.001-04:00

This is a poem I wrote in May, 2008 which was published a year later in a magazine in Japan. It's less concrete than my average Gogyohka- I wrote it contemplating someone dear to me who was leaving my life. Somehow, it seems to fit today- so here it is, for you!

sitting here

thinking of you

remembering

and trying

to forget

Gogyohka-Thursday [50]

2011-09-08T06:12:00.000-04:00

And then came the day

when Marilyn learned

she could still hear the world

through her headphones.

Her life as a recluse was wrecked forever.

Gogyohka-Thursday [49]

2011-09-01T06:19:00.002-04:00

I go

merrily singing

and skipping

and twirling

around the college campus.

For pity's sake people, smile!

Gogyohka-Thursday [48]

2011-08-25T11:59:00.000-04:00

the tongue, my weapon

has cleft the deepest wounds

into my memory -

my memorial

to those I lost in action

Gogyohka-Thursday [47]

2011-08-18T16:17:00.000-04:00

"Some things never change."

What things? Even the mountains fade

and faces wither in ever-churning time?

God alone remains the same-

yesterday, today, and forevermore.

Gogyohka-Thursday [46]

2011-08-11T18:40:00.002-04:00

hats and bows

burned papers and sea-glass

I unpack my souvenirs

and remember

you

Fond Fare Thee Well

2011-08-09T16:44:00.004-04:00

It's been about a year since I began Salt-Rain Tidings in August, 2010. I have so enjoyed blogging- documenting my experiences and sharing my thoughts. However at this time I think it wise to give my blog a rest as I have found it difficult to live in the present when I am constantly thinking and writing up posts. These next few months will hopefully provide me opportunity to devote more time to the people around me and to work towards publishing some children's literature (a project that has long been shelved in the shadow of my blog). This isn't a good-bye, just a take-care and see-you-later. I may begin re-blogging when I transfer colleges in January- or next year- or maybe just some time "in the distant future". But at any rate- don't forget the archives, and per request I WILL be keeping up Gogyohka-Thursdays- so do stop in and check them out.

blessings,

L.E. Fiore

Gogyohka-Thursday [45]

2011-08-04T11:49:00.000-04:00

strange

how "home"

is not always

where your

heart is...

Afternoon Tea in Company

2011-07-31T00:57:00.001-04:00

"Find yourself a cup; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things." -Saki

To my utter delight, I spent my birthday this year with the Townsend girls, my very oldest friends. (We go back to birth- a length of history I would challenge anyone to beat). To celebrate we went out for afternoon tea- all nine of us- our two mothers, their four girls, and my two sisters and I.

We spent the morning ironing our clothes (particularly feminine for the occasion)- doing our make-up- taking last minute pictures. My little sister was particularly tickled in anticipation and told us with wide eyes- "We should pretend we're from England. From ancient times- before the revolution. And we should be very stiff and speak in English accents."

We went to a lovely tea shop- full of rose-china, linens, accessories, and satchels of tea. We were seated at two tables outside- next to the stain-glass windows and charming wooden-cottage doors. The tables were bedecked with flowers and lovely china, with pink napkins in flowered napkin-holders. Not far off- three older ladies looked up from their tea to giggle and wave at us and ask what the occasion was. The charm of the atmosphere was contagious. (What is it in a woman- that blooms in the presence of beauty- and is ever seeking to recreate it around her?) We chose from a vast tea menu two pots of tea to start off with (Dutchess Delight- which was a coconut, lemon, kiwi combo- Vanilla and Pieces- and later we had a mango tea and a blueberry tea)- and then adjourned to the dressing corner where we picked out hats.

What is a tea-party without hats?

Bonnets and boaters! Cloches and cocktails! Straw and felt! We had heaps of fun trying them all on and each choosing one to fit our outfit. I ended up with a wide-brimmed white hat- with a very coquettish netted veil. I found a pair of purple gloves to match my dress- but I ended up taking them off as they seriously interfered with eating.

Soon our tea came- and then our food. We supped on five different kinds of tea sandwiches- pesto and cranberry and humus and ham and cucumber- of that feminine shape and size that would make men shudder and despair of ever being truly satisfied. Next we had fruit and followed by scones with clotted cream, preserves, and lemon-curd. We finished off with strawberry shortcake (mine had a candle in it- upon which I wished).

As to our conversation, well, I shall not betray the confidence of that intimate circle by relating to you our numerous topics- or the smiles exchanged or the jokes shared and giggled over. No, for I hold the confidings shared by an entirely female circle sacred, and I could not tell you of them any more than I could offend the delicacy of my fair companions by relating to you just how many cups of tea each of us ladies consumed- imbued, as they were- with many slips of the sugar spoon and much cream besides. But I can tell you that there was joy- and joy abounding.

As three hours came to a close (you can imagine how much tea and talking filled those hours)- we perused the tea-shop- returning our hats to their hat-stands and fingering the linens for sale. There were three table-clothes purchased. One- a lovely paisley pattern of deep reds, oranges, and black- which, with my propensity towards anything Indian, I was immediately drawn to. Samantha, my darling friend, got it for me for my birthday. (Just the thought makes me smile.)

And then the antique store! More hats! More china! More linens! And cookery and table-ware besides. (We did not emerge unscathed. I believe there was at least one bracelet and exactly four silver napkin holders purchased.)

Five hours from when we set out- we returned home- weary from happiness. I can't think of a better way than to have celebrated my birthday. No tea could have been made any sweeter- for I shared it with the sweetest of company.

*Pictures by Madalynn Townsend. Used by permission.

Gogyohka-Thursday [45]

2011-07-28T14:20:00.002-04:00

parking in Hollywood

snapping pictures of

an abandoned wine bottle

which later passed us-

acquired by three androgynous locals

River Rhapsody

2011-07-25T19:44:00.002-04:00

There is in California a well-kept secret: the whereabouts of a river- secluded in a gorge- hidden by two mountain ranges.

On Wednesday we all- the eight of us and our grandparents- Poppi and Gaum- went river-rafting. We endured the hour or so of hair-pin turns to get there- and equipped ourselves with rash guards, wet-suits, hand-fin-gloves, hats, glasses, water-shoes, and a fair bit of sunscreen. We attempted to color-coordinate our various accessories- but in the end set out looking much like brightly colored tramps- our shoes, wet-suit, and air-mattress swung over an arm.

It is reachable only by way of an abandoned highway. For an hour you must walk in direct sunlight- the rising mountains to your left and to your right a cliff-drop into the gorge.

The chatter between us passes the time as our feet traverse the rocky highway deeper into the mountains- farther away from people, medical help, and proper bathrooms. We at last reach the turnoff where we leave the road and carefully descend a steep (and unsteady) dust footpath into the gorge. My sister takes my brother's arm- for her shoes have no traction and she does a great deal of discomforting slipping on the way down. After a quarter of a mile or so we reach the river where we put on our wet-suits and water-shoes and take our first dip into the river.

But the journey you must take in the blistering heat only magnifies the reward received in reaching the water. At first it is a shock of cold- and then the coldness is gone- and it is only a refreshing cool. You let your limbs slip under the rushing torrents- your feet find footholds between the river-bed stones.

We wade and stumble around rapids a bit up the river till we reach the first and second pool- my favorites. They design water parks after such places- clear, crystal, spherical pools spilling one into the other.

A veritable paradise- Diana in her infancy must have made these pools her bath- her radiant fingers smoothing away the edges from each stone till they gleamed, lunar pillars, around her aquatic palace.

We seat ourselves on the edge of the first lagoon- where the mothers and my little sister spend the day. From our packs we pull sausages wrapped in cellophane, carrots, and cheese. Those of us strong of lung (I do not include myself) blow up the ten air-mattresses which serve as our rafts. And then we are on our way- pushing off into a deep, green, shadowed lagoon.

In other places you can scarcely see the river floor- the waters turn from a languid green to an impenetrable black. In these secluded waters- who knows what lurks beneath the surface- sheltered in the shadow of the rising cliffs- hidden by the mountains.

This river is one of the few places where the rapids are large enough to enjoy- but not large enough to be of any serious danger. But this year the water is higher than normal (even higher than the other two times I visited in June) so we end up having to scramble around the falls- the current too strong to fight our way against. In between these scrambles we drift and paddle our way across lagoon after lagoon- till reaching our destination- where the gorge narrows and climaxes in a waterfall. In this particular section of the river the cliffs narrow so as to make a sort of passage between the mountains- so narrow you can touch both stone faces simultaneously as they rise above you for 20-30 feet.

Between Schylla and Charybdis you waver. To stay in the unknown depths of the black lagoon- or to venture on into the foreboding enclosures of the stone passage, cliffs, and caves?

Through the passage you drift- dragging yourself along by the stone walls till the passage widens into a pool. Here the waterfall crashes down in a roar of wave and foam. My brother scares us by clambering up the rock face with the aid of two ropes and his own two adventurous feet- higher and higher above the stone and falls and water. We breath easier when he is back down.

Where are the pirate ships? The smuggler's caves? Where in these depths do the mermaids play?

As we turn and head down-stream- this time with the current on our side- we pass two young men who are cliff-jumping. One of them lends his goggles to Paul who informs us that the depths of the pool are some thirty or forty feet and three-foot fish are swimming beneath us. (I didn't need to know that.) Paul takes the lead and he and I, close behind, blaze the trail ahead of everyone. We are both the lightest in our group- at 95 pounds- and we slide down the falls that cause others to capsize. Soon we are far ahead- and remain ahead no matter how many times we wait for the others to catch up. I am the first to sight our starting point- where we stow our rafts and return to the water unencumbered.

Beach yourself on a rock in the sun- let your feet bath in the rushing water- laugh and wave at those on shore.

We pull out our remaining victuals and the lot of us- on a rock in the water- rest from our toils and give each other back-massages. Then we begin the three mile walk home.

Can we really leave this wonderful place? The cliffs and the river? We're here. For the moment. Here in California's best-kept secret.

We reach the cars- we change back into clothes and shake off the sand. The day ends perfectly with Poppi treating us all to fantastic dinner- where we dine on pea soup and butter-lettuce salad, ravioli and baby-back ribs, sole and salmon- and for dessert a peach bread pudding and chocolate gelato. We crawl into beds- covered in scratches and bruises- aching all over- and full of good memories. Some of us are likely to return tomorrow.

But where is this Eden? I cannot tell. For I have become a secret-keeper.

Moonlight Moments

2011-07-22T16:47:00.000-04:00

Sometimes it’s difficult to vacation on vacation.

There was a certain other-worldness to our week at Camp Spofford. I left the laptop at home. I was in a new place with new people. I was able- at least during the day- to forget my life and all its problems: a true and timely vacation.

But here… in a wonderful way, in returning to where I was a born, where I was a child- and the homeland of my parents and grandparents- I feel more in tune than ever with all that has made me who I am. There is no escape into alternative selves here. Instead I am bombarded with memories from the past and I incessantly think of the future- of next semester at college- and of January when I transfer.

My sister seems to feel the same way. We were sitting in the spa- slowly cooking ourselves in the hot water and in the brilliant, harsh sun. “It is hard to just be.” she said. She too constantly thinks of the future. It is difficult to just take in the moment.

In California- and so often unable to take in the moment. I fear missing these moments. Already I feel there have been moments not fully appreciated- already in the ever growing past.

Such thoughts as these played in my head last night as I gazed up alone at the night sky outside my grandparent’s house in Santa Rosa. The sky is a curious black in California- verging on purple, hinting of legions- almost misty. It is of that impossibly large quality peculiar to the flatlands. And despite the street lights (again, unique to suburbia), stars still shown down on my bare feet and upturned eyes. I felt, as I looked at it, that there is no sky like it- and how could I have forgotten it- and how could I possibly remember it?

I ran- across the grass and down the cooling pavement in the moonlight- thinking. And suddenly lights from an approaching car stopped me in my tracks and I stood very, very still (abashed, as I was, to be caught alone and dancing at night on a sidewalk) next to a bush (which resulted in my getting many sharp needles in my feet) till they had passed and pulled into a driveway not too far away. I began to walk as inconspicuously as possible away from them when I heard some, well, rather unmistakable noises. I turned- and in the corner driveway stood the elderly couple just gotten out of the car- locked in each other's arms kissing. I stood, transfixed for a few moments watching this peculiar scene- then realized it would be very awkward if I was caught and moved on. I glanced back a few minutes later and they were still at it. (My grandparents informed me that their respective spouses were friends and had died and since then they've been going steady for three years.)

Such tender love on such a tender night. The stars themselves were smiling. I smiled back- and the words from a song (which seems to be the melody that themes this vacation) -a stirring, wistful rendition of Over The Rainbow by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole- played in my head. Someday I’ll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind me…

Such are the moments that make up days. A beautiful young mother, pregnant with her third daughter, at the pool. All the old ladies- second grade teachers and navy men’s wives- with their twinkling eyes and smiles- all of them jams (sweet, pink, and preserved). These are the details I commit to paper- in haste lest the memory loose its potency- in hopes that I won’t forget.

I see fields of gold- grass turned to royal repose in the heat of summer.

I see trees- scattered and rising from the golden dunes. They are short and squat clusters of green- their gangly arms like the disproportionate limbs of trolls- weighted down and dragging on the floor.

“If this is going to run around in my head, I might as well be dreaming…” (Nickel Creek)

I hear the sound of my Grandpa’s voice- as he prayed over our first meal here- thanking our good Lord for each of us- so special to him. And I sense- rather than see- my grandmother, like a ministering angel, doing the dishes as we climbed into bed- doing the laundry after we’re all sleep- and turning off the last light. (I was several times awake- my mind racing- late into the night. I wish I had joined her.) And I see her- her hand over her mouth- hiding something, or keeping something down- as she waved good-bye in the middle of the street as we drove away.

And as I write this- that last memory brings the tears streaming down my face. The back of my throat burns.

Gogyohka-Thursday [44]

2011-07-21T10:05:00.002-04:00

my sister

sees a sea-otter

for the first time

and makes a squeal

like a sea-gull in my ear

Sonoma and Sierras

2011-07-18T14:49:00.002-04:00

The shouts of our triumphant rejoicing eclipsed the rumble of traffic as we crossed the California border. We think a Californian must have drawn up the state line. They allotted all the desert waste land to Nevada and the second we crossed the border we were in the pine forests of the sierra mountains.

All I could do was stare out the window (and did for the successive three hours). I stared at the gray knobby rocks and the tall pine trees and the way the mountain-side floor drifted and dipped and rose and felt wafts of familiarity wash over me.

We drove over the mountains- and at one point we got out and looked at the green valley below- pine trees as far as the eye could see- rising again on the distant mountains. The sunset made them golden. I'd forgotten how beautiful Northern California is. The light was familiar. The trees were familiar. And oh, the sweet smell of pine- so familiar I wanted to cry. I found my mother's arms- "We're home."

The first two days we spent with very, very old friends. Our families had gone camping together before I was old enough to remember- but I do recall my sister and I playing with their oldest son and the day we went to the wharf in San Fransisco and I thought there was a snake in the hold of one of the ships. We had a wonderful time of fellowship together- talking about theology and culture and health food (they make home-made pickles and sour-kraut and kombucha- which, by the way, has won me over and I now thoroughly enjoy). Their eldest daughter and I took a walk and we talked about how the Lord had worked in our own lives and in those in our families.

It was a singularly odd sensation for me- to pass houses full of plants and landscaping modes (wood chips and cement types) I hadn't seen in ages, yet with each tree or scent emotions and sensations and hints of not-fully-realized memories flocked to my brain. I almost couldn't think- I felt drenched in a nostalgic goo.

We are at present at my grandparent's house in Sonoma county- wine country. My grandpa gave us a tour of their complex (telling us funny stories- like how the bridge players have to wave their arms in the air to keep the motion-sensitive lights on) and we visited Jack London's estate and Luther Burbank's place (he cross-breed plants to develop 800 new varieties- including the Shasta daisy and the Russet potato). We dozed in Burbank's garden- while christian music from a band drifted from the park across the street.

My grandmother's been making us some fantastic dinners- we've had soup and salmon and filet mignon. My sister and I went grocery shopping with her yesterday. Costco is the same wherever you are but the people dress differently. (California guys know how to dress.) But in Trader Joes I smile to see six shelves devoted to different kinds of tortillas- at at Safeway the cash-register lady automatically (despite our six bags) asked if we "need help out to the car today?"

We've spent a few evenings at the spa- talking to friend's of my grandparents (we've had very interesting conversations on astrology and teaching). Almost every night we hold a double Pinochle tournament. We have nine players so we get two games going at once. Our grandparents taught us how to play years ago so they are ridiculously fun and intense games.

It still feels surreal that we're here. Actually here. All the more strange because we drove instead of being teleported by plane. At times I betake myself to dreamy walks outside. I do cartwheels in the thick grass. I stalk lizards. And I delight myself in again feeling hot sidewalk under my bare feet.

Gogyohka-Thursday [43]

2011-07-14T20:23:00.000-04:00

I go to California

to be warm

and they freeze

me to death

with their air-conditioners.

Going West

2011-07-13T12:45:00.001-04:00

We’ve been on the road for nearly forty-eight hours strait now. On Sunday we left after church (with many good-byes and well-wishes from our church congregation) and set out from New York on the trail headed west.

All eight of us are neatly packed into what we fondly call our green-covered-wagon (Suburban truck) and we pass the hours reading, driving, and making use of all our wonderful technological equipment. We fall asleep on each other if we're not too hot. We take much needed breaks at McDonalds and rest stops to eat our home-made chicken cutlets. (I think I could give a rundown on the states we’ve passed through based solely on the aesthetic of their rest stops).

I’ve watched as the rolling hills of Pennsylvania became the rolling hills of Ohio. The land flattened, cornfields state after state. Iowa was flat. So was Nebraska. We’ve had our share of mishaps already. In the night we missed the splitting of the Interstate 80 and 90 and ended up an hour or two north just over the border into Wisconsin. (Wisconsin was flat, too.) We are blessed to have five drivers – my mother and sister take the night shifts as they are capable of not falling asleep at the wheel (a trait I regrettably do not possess). Both of my siblings only have their permits so a licensed adult has to sit in the front seat next to them at all times (despite, for example, my sister having driven for three years). So it was of particular satisfaction to me when on my shift I took a look around and found my mom, dad, and sister all fast asleep (my mother calls my "smoooth" hand at the wheel "lullaby-driving"). My brother got his driving medal when he took a shift in Iowa and drove through a torrential downpour which (we later heard on the radio) took out half of the power in Chicago.

In Nebraska things got particularly interesting. We stopped at our favorite rest area so far- sporting an immaculate green lawn that would have been the envy of my whole street back home, lovely stone-surrounded picnic areas, a baby dinosaur in a sand-box, and bathrooms of artistic white and blue tiling. The Nebraska landscape has a very gradual up and down to it- barely visible in what was soon night-time. And we ran into another storm. A huge storm. The radio promised golf-ball sized hail and possible tornadoes (but we never saw either). We stopped at a gas station to wait it out but were informed by an employee that we really didn’t have anything to worry about so we decided to brave it. Dad was driving. The rain was fantastic (visibility was the real issue) and we ended up joining three other cars pulled over under an over-pass. We watched the storm with baited breath. The sky was a constant flicker- and at times we saw bolts of lightning streak down and meet the earth. Then every few minutes there would be a flash of light- lighting up the entire sky (impossibly big with so few trees), truly blinding, followed by a deafening clap of thunder.

Eventually we moved on- and as the storm passed us I took over the wheel in the leftover drizzle. There are no lights to speak of on the 80 in Nebraska. I drove with my eyes flickering from the fifteen feet of visible dotted line down to my left- and the red tail lights of the one or two cars far ahead of me on the skyline. All else was black. And as I drove through the darkness on the narrow and strait road- I had the sensation of continuing on into a horizon of eternal blackness.

In the middle of last night we woke and tumbled out of the car into a Wyoming rest stop. It was freezing cold. But there was something in the air that hadn’t been there before- a scent of a particular tree, perhaps. It smelled less like New York- and far more like California.

I woke this morning to vaulting mountain ranges- layered stone in grey, cream, and red tones- to cattle ranges and protruding rock formations and a sunrise of deep golds and purples. From Wyoming into Utah, we weave our way through the mountains- passed caves and trains and small clusters of civilization- ever west, ever west.

I can scarcely believe we're almost there. Home. Where I was born. California. My California.

Anticipation mounts. My heart begins to race.

Gogyohka-Thursday [42]

2011-07-07T23:10:00.000-04:00

clothes, freshly ironed

travel tubes of paste and gel

notebooks and novels and electronic devices

my suitcase licks its lips-

it tastes adventure

Family, Family, FAMILY!

2011-07-05T21:41:00.002-04:00

We were all unexpectedly surprised when we learned that we had a chance to go to Camp Spofford in New Hampshire the last week of June. Frankly, half of us kids weren't even excited. I mean... We'd never been to camp. Camp is where you wear t-shirts in bright neon colors and wake up with shaving cream in your hair and fight with people who look like you? Parent Trap? right? But as rumors (and rumors of rumors) began to circulate about the yearly delights of Camp Spofford- excitement did begin to ignite in our skeptical bosoms. We packed the car to bursting- full of swimsuits, bibles, flash-lights and eight or so sleeping bags,- the three oldest of us packed into the very back row of our Suburban truck, and we were on our way. I was soon asleep- and didn’t wake up till Vermont.

Fifteen minutes into New Hampshire- we drove into Camp Spofford. A lake glistened to our left- to our right a chapel, field, and well-groomed cabins. We found our tentel and unpacked. We gathered around as Sarah and Dad read off the beach and camp rules (i.e.- no swimming after 10:00 pm as patrol sharks are placed in the water and they will bite). Daddy and I meandered hand-in-hand around the grounds... it was lovely. Everything was painted in woodsie hues- flowers cascaded from their beds (including a highly amusing literal bed full of flowers)- a brook ran through the grounds (traversed by bridges) into the lake and through the air wafted the smokey smell of dinner.

Soon we began meeting people- first a boat man- then my siblings and I made conversation with a family on the playground. We began to learn each other's names with relish and giggled as one of the girls, (her golden hair flying), found her youngest siblings and stuck name-tags (like it or not) onto their unsuspecting backs. The camp convocation brought even more meetings- as we met the families behind and in front of us in the pews and were formally introduced to everyone as each family stood and counted off their names and each child's age. Then we did activities together. These were such things as making boats from Styrofoam trays and skewers and sailing them down the brook- and playing dodge-ball. '(Nothing quite like smacking people with balls to get to know them.) Then it was time for dinner! Smoked and pulled pork! Oh, man, that stuff was good...

We were there five days. We loved every minute. But how to encapsulate the essence of that time for you? Shall I tell you of the kids- the delightful little girls who would run and hug me on sight- or the boys with their bright eyes and sticks and water-guns? Shall I tell you of the nights we spent playing card games till midnight in Knutes- where popcorn is a dollar with endless free refills- where they make amazing floats and shakes and fresh, hot, Cinnamon donuts? Can I possibly skip the water-skiing, the pancakes and chocolate milk, the Family Olympics, or the Talent Show? Where could I begin on the conversations we had- on theology and economics and children and parenting. How can I describe the encouragement I received from mother's smiles and my delight in holding a newborn?

How concisely can I possibly tell you of the the afternoon I spent on the island (covered in Ever-Greens and sulfuring fish)- digging up clay deposits in an inlet with the other girls and boys- covering our face and arms and legs with designs- applying the tattoos on each other- washing them off- reapplying- wading around the island, giggling and smiling under the sun? Or what of the night those of us in college drove into the town of Keene - meandering through kitchen stores, drinking coffee drinks, talking in accents, taking pictures, commenting on quaint buildings, and having a grand old time? Or what of the night Sarah, two guys, and I spent hours by the lake talking by candlelight of the sermons we'd heard that week, family dynamics, struggles, and faith. I was, on multiple levels, deeply encouraged by our fellowship. Oh, the family of God.

Or best of all- where to begin in relating the wonderful teaching we received from Norm Wakefield- who did the chapel sessions and adult workshops each day? We all- every family- were deeply blessed by he and his wife's ministry. On Sunday he spoke from 1 Peter about the imperishable relationship Christ has given us- based not on our actions but on His faithfulness and the work on the cross. And on Wednesday he spoke from 2 Corinthians about tearing down walls- the walls in our own hearts. I was challenged to reflect Christ in my relationships- who chose to undergo the pain, separation, and agony of the cross so that we- sinners- might be reconciled to him... so that the veil- the wall between us and God- would be severed forever.

I was faced, perhaps for the first time, with how easily I build walls against people in my heart- and how many walls I have been busy building for so many years. Mr. Wakefield talked about how our relationships are an aroma before God- and how when we sow discord we reflect Satan's way- but when we choose to bear other's sin and keep our hearts open, offering the gift of a love based not on what someone does- but on what Christ has done- we are an aroma of Christ before God. Oh, to reflect Christ! To remind God of Christ! And so I am strengthened with a resolve. When I am hurt (how often, and how easily this seems to happen!) I find myself praying: I will not build a wall. I will bear this hurt (Lord, help me bear it).

How thankful I am for the family of God.

All too soon, it was over. We were saying good-bye to family after family with whom we had already formed a wonderful bond. We promised- and we will- be retuning next year.

We drove home and dragged our things back into the house- weary but happy. And that night Annie came into my room before bed. "Good-night" she said- and as our arms wrapped around each other, her head burrowing into me, I drank in wafts from her hair. She didn't smell like Annie.

"You smell like Camp Spofford." I told her.

"What does Camp Spofford smell like?"

"Like wind, and sand, and water, and happiness."

She smiled- her eyes lighting up with that very happiness- alive in her memories. And then she went to bed.

Gogyohka-Thursday [41]

2011-06-30T18:30:00.003-04:00

ivory face

how long did you pose

for laboring hands

to mold

your lithe figure

- 4/27/09

Spring Reading [Part 2]

2011-06-27T19:11:00.050-04:00

WE TWO by GILLIAN GILL

So, I'm going to tell you about a book I didn't actually finish reading. I've always loved the story of Victoria and Albert (the A&E movie is fantastic). For me it is a beautiful picture of a women placed in an incredible position of power- and how she succeeded in balancing that legal role with her holy one of being her husband's help-meet. Yeah, ok. So then somebody gave me this book and at first I was enjoying it- the author's a good writer. I was fascinated to read of the generations leading up to Victoria (her father and his four brothers all had mistresses and illegitimate children and were an awful mix of madness and genius and all of them rogues- no wonder the people loved Victoria and Albert). However around the time Victoria meets Albert the whole book goes down-hill. The author is apparently a flaming feminist (and shows no knowledge of true piety) and chalks all righteous actions up to devious ulterior motives. Albert, for example, could not have been a virgin till his marriage at twenty-one because of his conviction on the subject- but because he must have had homosexual leanings. (Despite, like, Victoria and their nine kids and his life-long devotion to moral integrity. Yeah, right.) Gill admits there is no evidence- but the suggestion is there anyway. Furthermore, she described Victoria's eventual submission to her husband's headship and lead as resulting from Albert having some sort of physiological and sexual power over her. (Eww.) Gill ridiculed all sentiments pure or pious- and psycho (and psycho-sexually) analyzed everything. I'm convinced she studied Freud. I was disgusted. So I put the book down. Maybe it got better. But I'll never know. [NOT RECOMMENDED]

FIRST LOVE by IVAN TURGENEV

Great Scott, this was an interesting ride. I was poking through my shelves for something to read and found a book of short Russian novels. (When all else fails- you gotta love the Russian novel). First Love begins with a few gentlemen sitting around and deciding to tell the story of their fist love. Only one has anything interesting to tell (hence the resulting novel). And it was certainly interesting. The young laddie falls for the princess, Zinaida, next door who delights in collecting suitors and torturing them with her charm and unobtainable beauty. He and the other suitors alike are lead by a mad passion which allows the princess to make them suffer as much as she likes (they endure not just snubbing and false-leading, but hair-pullings and window-jumpings). The story culminates when the hero discovers his father has been lead into an affair with Zinaida- who has in turn discovered this possessive, permissive love (the young man witnesses the princess allowing his father to beat her). "That's true love," the character comments, "obviously one accepts anything if one really loves." Such was the message of the book. To love is to worship- idolize- and make the object of your devotion's desire your law (over God's), regardless of the moral consequence. How revolting. I have long been of a more Aristotelian mind when it comes to love- to love is to desire someone's highest good. -To desire their happiness (but not at the cost of their righteousness), to want them to have what is best (even if that means not you). I was, at the book's conclusion- reminded of those lovely words of the poet Richard Lovelace, "I could not love thee, dear, so much / Lov'd I not Honor more." [NOT RECOMMENDED]

PERSUASION by JANE AUSTEN

Persuasion has long been one of my favorite books. It is, I believe, Austen's crowning achievement- and widely recognized as her most mature novel. In no other of her novels do we so fully get inside the heroines head- nor in any of her other works do we find so mature a love. This is due to the fact that the novel begins with love already being established (as opposed to, say, Pride and Prejudice, where I must admit that she never convinces me that Darcy and Lizzy really had a meeting-of-minds, hearts, souls, etc, in their constrained discussions over tea and the weather). Rather conveniently for Austen, we have in Persuasion a love already in full bloom at the beginning of the book (she is thus spared writing how it happened)- but tortured and repressed. One of my favorite portions is where Anne laments her estrangement from Wentworth, " Once so much to each other! Now nothing! There had been a time, when (...) there could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement." Austen does a masterful job of revealing the delicate intricacies of passion, misunderstanding, pride, even forgiveness- and best of all the kind of biblical, never-failing love that "loves longest, even when all hope (...) is gone." [HIGHLY RECOMMENDED]

Spring Reading [Part 1]

2011-06-25T18:25:00.114-04:00

THE LIFE AND DIARY OF DAVID BRAINERD by JONATHAN EDWARDS and DAVID BRAINERD

While going through church history in Sunday-school, my pastor briefly detailed the life of David Brainerd who was a missionary to the American Indians in the 1740s. Brainerd was a friend of Jonathan Edwards. It was he that compiled Brainerd's writings, wrote the "Life" part, and published the book. (Edward's seventeen-year-old daughter Jerusha Edwards nursed Brainerd in her father's house for the months leading up to his death from tuberculosis in 1747, and died herself from contracting the disease from him a few months later). My pastor lend me a copy (old and red) of The Life and Diary and I must say that all in all I enjoyed it. The book was roughly split into three sections- Edward's biography of him (mildly interesting), Brainerd's spiritual journal (terribly boring- Brainerd was what Edwards called a "melancholy" man and day in and day out he wafted between the depths of despair and spiritual ecstasy). The last portion was Brainerd's writings of his dealings and ministry to the American Indians. This was fascinating! And so uplifting. It was neat to read Brainerd's descriptions and reactions to the indigenous, pagan practices of the tribes (pre-revolution, and still a far-cry from the peace-loving, story-telling, animal-loving fiction promoted by the media). It was also wonderful to read of his preaching and endurance through harsh conditions (and at first reaping no fruit), and then the genuine repentance of individual after individual- and evidence of lives radically changed for Christ. [RECOMMENDED]

HARRY POTTER by J.K. ROWLING

So believe it or not, I read the first two Harry Potter books (and hopefully will have the rest read by mid July). Growing up, we (my family) and then I was one of those people that eschewed Rowling's series as something less than exemplary. (Despite my love for the fantasy works of Tolkien and Lewis- we felt there was a difference.) At any rate my sister watched the movies at college and fell in love with them- and since then those of us of age in my family have been enjoying them as well. About a week ago I felt like some light reading- so I decided to take the plunge. And yes, I love them. There's no denying they're not high-literature, but regardless Rowling is an absolutely delightful writer. She has an incredible (and ever-surprising) imagination (I really get a kick out of the idea of "every-flavor-beans" and jumping chocolate frogs) and her characters are endearing and full of true feeling and an ultimate desire to do right. So far as the magical elements of the novels go- I have found nothing that gave me pause. I would not, myself- hand them to a twelve-year-old, anymore than I would hand a twelve-year-old Anna Karenina- not because they have anything "bad" in them so much as it deals with themes that a child may find difficult to process. For those of us who know fantasy when we see it- it's a fantastical ride. [RECOMMENDED: for light reading and the high enjoyment of a discerning reader]

THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY and by FYDODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Unfortunately my library doesn't have The Idiot on hand (the Dostoevesky novel I'm dying to read)- so I am contenting myself with working through their collection of Dostoevsky's lesser novels. The Friend of the Family was nothing other than boring and torturous. The main character never does anything of consequence (except immortalize the miserable tale) and I found none of the other characters likable. The story is of how a family is taken incredible advantage of by a wily "fool" (Dostoevsky loves making people play the buffoon) named Foma. Foma takes particular advantage of the generous, large-hearted (though simple) "uncle" in the story- who can't say the simplest thing without the rogue, Foma, (who is living at the uncle's expense in his house), spouting tears and curses and accusations of ungratefulness, pride, and wickedness (to which the poor uncle is sure Foma must be right and repents of his so-called sins with tears and kisses). Maddening stuff. The scenes go on for pages and pages. The worst of it is that Foma never gets what he deserves and at the end still has the upper hand on everyone. That really annoyed me. [NOT RECOMMENDED]

NETOCHKA NEZVANOV by FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

The second novel in the book was Netochka Nezvanov. Such a difference! This was the gripping Dostoevsky I know- with all his brilliant understanding of the minute emotions and far-reaching importance of human interaction. One particularly interesting aspect of this story was that it was written in the first person- and I only discovered half-way through that it was a girl. I'm afraid I never really was convinced (I kept thinking the girl would turn out to be a boy) for the character's mind was anything but feminine. (I am glad to know that Dostoevsky got his females under control by the time he wrote The Brothers Karamazov). After following the main character through her abused childhood, her placement in a new home and (rather creepy) infatuation with the family's daughter, and then teen-age years in a psychologically oppressed family- (the story culminates when a revealing letter is found and there is much screaming and dying and fainting and that sort of thing)- suddenly the story stops. So much drama- and no conclusion. I was shocked. I googled to see what the scholarly opinion of the work was and read on wiki that it was only the beginning, barely a prologue, to Dostoevesky's first and never finished novel. (Man, thanks a lot, Fyodor.) [RECOMMENDED FOR THOSE WHO DELIGHT IN MAKING A CASE-STUDY OF DOSTOEVSKY]

NOTE: This post is split into two portions- I read three romances and I found them in interesting contrast to one another so they will make up the second part of this post.

Gogyohka-Thursday [40]

2011-06-23T19:12:00.000-04:00

Guest Gogyohka by Peter Fiore. (Ok, so, obviously I seem to be making a habit of this...hmm... IDEA IN INCUBATION! I'll keep you posted.)

Pastries-

lined up in a row-

baker asks,

"What would you like?"

Everything.

God in the Car

2011-06-22T17:39:00.002-04:00

I remember my first day of college. I was nervous, probably late, and up at six. It was still dark outside. I was anxious to see the patches of road which I knew would all too soon grow familiar as day after day I would pass by them, pass time by them, and even keep time by them.

The route was unfamiliar to me, and when I at last got through back roads and made it to the highway the entrance ramp brought to me up to a stretch of road overlooking a great expanse below. Mountains vaulting before me, behind me, and in the distant sky. The rising sun was dying the clouds a misty violet- highlighting them in brilliant gold- and rays were shooting down into the valley casting deep purple shadows. The beauty caught my breath and brought tears to my eyes. This is what I'd see every morning. Thank you, God.

Such gifts of beauty have been frequent in my many excursions. I've known sunny days so delightful- with the wind in my face and music playing in my ears and the sweet taste of freedom in my mouth- that made me so happy I thought I could burst. And I've known days driven in torrents- when the rain came down so hard and the roads were so slick or the snow so deep that I felt first terror- and then a surrender taking over my soul as I sensed the fragility of life and the safety of my Father's loving arms.

I remember once I was driving home on a wet day and I came to a blind T- where there should have been a traffic light (I have since rerouted to avoid that turn) and where parked cars made it difficult to see oncoming traffic. I took the turn quickly to take advantage of what visibility I had at the moment, and the back of the car slid out. Back and forth the car s-curved... I felt my blood chill within me as I felt what could have happened if there had been a bit more momentum or if anything- or anyone- had been nearby.

Such narrow escapes always leave me with a breathless, numb feeling- like I cheated death- or tested God- or made my angels work hard. The panicy feeling doesn't subside till tears come- usually hours later.

In one of my classes this last semester we had a session where we interviewed a fellow classmate to see how they dealt with stress. The guy I talked to said one of the things he did was drive- and drive fast. At the time it struck me as slightly odd- driving fast is rather equivalent to courting death- and as thrilling as that may be I've had enough thrill unasked for keep me content and loving life dearly. But I have since discovered that driving does have an amazingly therapeutic effect on me.

I have come to the conclusion that the calm which a car creates in me is caused by some sort of habitual, happy, anticipatory nostalgia which it instantly induces. I don't always see beauty when I drive- I don't always go anywhere- half the time I leave the music off- but I am instantly aware as soon as I get into a car that I am delightfully alone- in a singular sort of way. The rumble of the car seems one with my own heart-beat- constant and comforting. And in the isolation that the four walls provide- the windows, moving panoramas looking out into the word- it's just me and my thoughts.

In the world but not quite. Alone but not quite. For it's in the car that I see and feel evidence of God all around me- His hand in the things I pass and in each safe turn I make... and though I can recall many drives spent in ceaseless prayer- I have also known the quiet assurance that though I drove and drove and never thought a thought- or said a word- He was still there and listening anyway.

Thank you for the sunrise. Thank you for keeping me safe. And thanks for listening.

Gogyohka-Thursday [39]

2011-06-16T12:04:00.000-04:00

Usually the picture

goes with the poem

but today we devote five lines

to wringing more use

out of this expensive photo

Amazing Love

2011-06-14T19:03:00.000-04:00

There are trials in everyone's life. The Word tells us that they are instruments for our perfection. I don't know if I write transparently enough for you to tell, but I have been for some time amidst just such a trial, that has for the last month left me numb- and only recently culminated in healing pain.

Particulars do not belong to public writing. But I would like to share with you my thankfulness for those people God has blessed me with. I am so thankful for my sisters in the Lord- who have affirmed me, sent me hugs (through cyberspace), prayed for me, and cried with me. And I am thankful for my mother- who can tell my mood and state from a glance, and feels pain as I feel pain.

For the last five days I have been pretty sick to-boot (I see now that this too was God's blessing). First it was a cold- then a fever- then a cold again, sore throat, nose, headache and all- and then added to it I got an eye-infection and have been nauseous for the last 48-hours (from nerves and coughing). Due to the latter this weekend I had barely eaten lunch and completely skipped dinner and so my mother took me out of the house to eat.

It was ten o'clock. Dogs were howling in the night and beginnings of rain rustled the trees. We went to our favorite diner- where she was so patient with me as I took about a half hour to pick something to eat. Everything sounded bad to my upset and knotted stomach. We poured over the menu- and at last ordered hyper a-la-carte: Roasted potatoes, cottage cheese, apple sauce, and egg whites. I barely picked at it (though I did drink lots of coke- you know that stuff was originally a stomach syrup), but just being out with her was wonderfully comforting.

So yes. I am thankful for my mother. And thankful for my sisters. But most of all I find myself incredibly thankful to God.

I wasn't expecting that. Usually when I hit a storm I do a lot of why?-ing, (that is, whining). But through this I have found myself drawn incredibly closer. I have been overwhelmed, overpowered, and overshadowed by an incredible sense of his love for me. It's ironic because God's love is something I've always struggled with- and so I see a priceless purpose even amidst my pain.

I know a God who's love is unchanging, who knows everything I've ever wanted someone to know- who doesn't leave. Who says that he, "guards our minds and hearts in Christ Jesus"- who IS love- that always hopes, endures, forgives, and never fails. (And this is love- that he loved us and sent His son).

Oh Lord-God, thank you for your love. I trust you a thousand times over.

You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me. - Psalm 139, 5-6

Gogyohka-Thursday [38]

2011-06-09T13:35:00.001-04:00

driving with my brother

giggling, singing

talking heart-to-heart

we miss our exit

twice

Forever-Friends

2011-06-06T10:35:00.006-04:00

I first began rethinking friendship about this time a year ago. This was brought on when I found my heart being drawn towards several girlfriends whom I never expected to be close to, and this made me stop and think.

Up until that point I had unconsciously divided my friends into two groups: those I was drawn to, and those drawn to me. In other words- there were the people who I found intriguing- and the people who wanted to be my friends and I could do nothing about.

Yet I found about a year ago that simultaneously I had learned two lessons. On the one hand was a girl I really really liked. Yet whenever we saw each other (despite my efforts) we never had a single conversation. What sort of friend was that? A friend that could write me a letter- but not say hi over the lunch table? On the other hand was a girl- who I genuinely liked- but didn't immediately feel a connection with. Yet she constantly sent me notes of encouragement- prayed for me- and made a point of spending time with me. And I found (last summer) that her persistent love for me won my heart.

Perhaps then it isn't who we love- but who loves us? Isn't there a verse... "We love him because he first loved us, and this is love that he loved us and sent his son." Perhaps love begets love.

This past week I spent twenty-four hours with my dear friend Katherine. I drove nearly two hours to be with her- with my typical inability to read maps getting me lost four or five times. (The irony of it was when the music started singing, "I knew the pathway like the back of my hand...") We took a walk along the country road under the brilliant blue sky, the spring wind playing with our hair. We stuck our feet in the creek- took a walk, talked, talked, watched movies, and talked some more. Midnight found us still talking- on our backs next to each other- our feet up on the wall.

It'd been a long time since we'd had so much time together. There was a curious nostalgia in the air- remembering when we were new friends- scarcely fourteen- and we went camping together and had spent the day under the very same sun- talking, talking, talking. We had argued. She had stormed off. Those years were hard- we had some enormous differences between us.

"I think we'll always be friends." she said at last the other night.

"Are you kidding? I didn't see you for two years and I prayed for you every single day. I can never forget you."

What is it about some people? How do they do it? People have different ways of expressing love (in quality time, encouragement, service, etc)- but I think it is something in that expression that separates true friends from mere acquaintances. Perhaps it is the continual expression of love- regardless of disagreement or unpleasant circumstances- that builds trust and knits hearts together.

We fought and we worked it out. We were separated and you didn't forget. I was in sin and you called me out. I was heart-broken and you comforted me. I was discouraged and you pointed me to God. I pushed you away- and you didn't let me go. I was at my worst- and you didn't leave.

True friendship patterns itself after the love of Christ. There is a giving of oneself- even when the other person is being unlovable. We choose to love. Love is an action. I can't tell you how many people have been just that sort of friend to me. They inspire me to be a better friend myself.

Friends are not the people I've known the longest, or have the most in common with, or have the best conversations with. My friends are those who by their sacrificial love have dug themselves so deep into my heart that I can never, ever, forget them.

And so for each of you who have been a true friend to me, I thank God for you. Bless you a thousand times over.

Gogyohka-Thursday [37]

2011-06-02T20:44:00.001-04:00

The Canadian Goose turned away,

affronted, when I threw him a nut.

Then I read the park sign:

ILLEGAL TO FEED BIRDS.

Literate, law-abiding goosie.

Rivers of Thought

2011-05-30T22:07:00.005-04:00

It seems with every flurry of activity comes a downpour of thoughts in my brain. When they first form they are distinct little raindrops- yet once fallen, quickly becoming indistinguishable from one another. There seems too great a river in my brain to share anything cohesive with you.

Nearly a week ago I took a walk through the woods (its memory still plays in my mind). I tickled my sister with a fern I picked- she went for the tight muscles in my side- and then we were chasing and giggling and tickling and dragging and squealing and the ordeal was not over until we passed a stone cave built into the hillside and I threatened to throw her in. (It's either a root cellar or a druid hole- historians can't make up their minds- so take your pick). She calmed down, slipped her hand in mine, and told me firmly that, "We are at peace now." Then from her tongue came the most tender confidings- about sisters... and me... and laughter. (My heart still gasps when I remember- not the words that she spoke- but all that lay behind them).

This weekend was a whirlwind. On Saturday we drove down into the city and went to Zabar's- an incredible (and enormous) Jewish deli. We walked in and were immediately confronted by 40 barrels of assorted olives- and the smells of cheese, fish, and coffee. My grandfather bought all sorts of amazing goodies (meat, salad, cheese, bread) and we picnicked in Central Park (while listening to a jazzy street band). Oh, yes. And then we went to my Met again. Afterwords we sat out on the front steps in the sun and listened to a saxophone player... by the time we left a crowd had amassed around him and three young guys (two in suits) were dancing.

I keep thinking of what God showed me when I prayed (thoughts oppressing my heart) for evidence of His love curled up in a hotel room... and it seems I have not yet had time to digest all that I learned and felt when I heard a sermon on Sunday from a visiting missionary.

I'm sitting at my computer (feeling hot and sticky and tired) and my mind is rambling down alleys... past the people I met... the music I heard... the foods I smelled... the feelings I felt... and the littered highways we passed which made me daydream about clean-up projects.

I live life through my experiences- and I see life through my thoughts. I don't know which part of me is larger- the half that delights in experience (and consequently adventure, sensory information, and the unexpected)- or that which longs to understand and conclude and realize and immortalize (and so betakes itself to the quiet to reflect and create).

My writing routine is a bit happenstance. I live (and don't think). And then I think (and don't live). I have to live to have something to write about. But I have to be still and think to write. Yet the longer I wait for ruminations to ripen- the more fuzzy the memories become in my mind.

I had thoughts yesterday. And the day before. But I didn't write them down. And so now everything feels fuzzy and half-baked inside... like I lost something and I'm not sure what.

Experiences are raindrops... they conjoin in pools, slip into streams of thought, and become the rivers we call our past.

Gogyohka-Thursday [36]

2011-05-26T12:58:00.000-04:00

Guest Gogyohka by Jonathan Fiore - which he wrote yesterday while walking through Little Italy in the Bronx.

Going down Arthur Avenue

with three pounds of Ricotta-

(two dark-eyed girls- so beautiful-

pass me).

I wish I knew Sicilian.

City Main Courses

2011-05-25T22:54:00.002-04:00

Today was one part trains, one part walking, one part window-ahhing, and two parts exhibits- pleasantly tossed with culinary adventures. Many thanks to my grandparents for such a delicious day. Some of the highlights were-

1) Seeing the Van Cleef & Arpels jewelry exhibition at the Cooper Museum. (People must have been bigger a hundred years ago- that stuff was enormous.)

2) Grace Kelly's engagement set from the Prince of Monaco!

3) Hearing lots of people speak in French- and in French accents. (Best one: "Ze batroom iz dis way- Yoo cannout mees eet nouw.")

4) Having a prosciutto sandwich (like I did seven or so years ago the first time) at Via Quadronno.

5) Amazing chocolate from La Maison Du Chocolat (favorite was one infused with passion fruit).

6) Resting on a stone bench- blue hydrangeas, watching people pass by, Annie playing with pigeons. 'Checking Facebook on my grandmother's iTouch. (My grandmother's more techy than me! I don't even own a cell-phone!)

7) The quilt exhibit at the American Folk Art museum. Such minute stitching! (I could never have that much PATIENCE!)

8) Finally storing away a bit of the Manhattan geography in this map-less brain of mine.

9) Splitting between the four of us Indian food and sorbet in Grand Central!

10) It being universally agreed upon (between my mother and myself) that woman's fashion has definitely improved in the last ten years.

My brothers had a day in the city too- they went to a Yankees game (we won). But what I found the most interesting about their rapturous report of their day was that over and over again they talked about food- food- and food. Italian ices. Pizza. The mozzarella, provolone, and three pounds of ricotta my Poppi purchased on Arthur Avenue.

Is it just our family? Is it being Italian? Is it something in the New York water? I find myself wondering if all peoples in all places find such delight in joining together over food. I hope so.

If we ever meet in the city- I want us to walk down Madison Avenue together and try my favorite chocolate. And then maybe we will have Peruvian food at Flor De Mayo- or stop by little Italy to bring back cheese for our mothers.

Post on Pictures

2011-05-23T12:27:00.010-04:00

Pictures are to posts as lipstick is to women. They catch your eye, provide a mental image for the words, and beautify the face of the blog. They are a vital accessory, and I have long been devoted to their cause. However, I had no sooner started blogging then I was forced to recognize that you can't get pictures from just anywhere. If you google for pictures- you end up using somebody's work (imagine using somebody else's lipstick). Regardless of what you may think about intellectual property-rights and free-loading, the idea of being contacted by an incensed photographer years down the road (when they stumbled on my blog and found the photos they took on their trip to Tahiti were being used without so much as a citation) was not a pleasant thought. Consequently, I discovered the below alternatives.

TAKE THEM YOURSELF

Believe it or not, I do take some of my own photos (unfortunately I am not handy enough with a camera to take as many as I should like). Some bloggers, it seems, take mostly their own photos (kudos to them), but I have only attempted it a few times,with middling success. Another possibility is to use a friend's pictures (and credit them). I've done this before when grandparents or friends took good shots.

ACQUIRE PERMISSION

You can still go the Google route- and actually contact the photographer for the use of the photo. Down this road I have usually met with success. (I think photographers are typically honored that someone likes their photos and that they'll get a shout-out in a post-script on your blog). The downside is you do need to contact them in advance since it often takes 24-48 hours for the owner to get back to you (hence a possible delay in your post). I have gotten a "no" only once- when the photograph was on the website of a plumbing and water-damage repair company (and they themselves had gotten the photograph from a third source). [People, one of my favorite Gogyohka-Thursdays is waiting in darkness for the right water-damaged-book photo. Contact me if you have one.]

PUBLIC DOMAIN

Currently this is where I get most of my photos. If you google "free images" you'll find host sites with a reasonably vast selection. Microsoft has quite a large collection- on occasion Wikipedia has a few historical ones. Also some image sites have free-trials where they let you download a hundred or so before asking you pay.

PURCHASE

Yes, I have actually purchased photos before. Companies such as Fotolia or Dreamstime will let you purchase credit packages to be used at your discretion. As a poor college student, this is far from cheap. But when I have cash to spare I'll get a few credits for the rainy day in which I simply can't find a fitting photo in public domain.

ADDENDUM

I should mention- purchasing photos is a time-consuming and risky venture. I looked through a good 2,000 before selecting the one at the top of this post... and then somehow (I don't know how) I selected the wrong size and bought the XXL version- like the kind you'd print and cover a wall with. (I don't like it THAT much!!!) So instead of costing me $2.50, it cost me a disgusting, gut-wrenching $24. I called the company but there's nothing they can do. It's a done deal. I'm pretty depressed now. (I'm thinking about using it twenty more times just to get my money's worth.)

So do me a favor and please scroll back up and fully appreciate the heading photo.

*Photo of the Metropolian by John Glines. Used by permission.

Gogyohka-Thursday [35]

2011-05-19T09:26:00.000-04:00

watching her try

to blow out

the candles

my arm

as wet as the cake

- 5/19/2008

Unbearable Beauty

2011-05-17T23:36:00.006-04:00

Sometimes beauty makes me cry.

It's something in the trees... about quiet laughter in the afternoon... about sunlight filtering through branches and bare-feet on wet grass... in the stillness of a forest and the sound of running water.

"All we can do, in this deep summer hour,
with the rain, the taxis and the flowers,
walking between the dear ones holding on,
is shout, shout for joy."

There's something in a kiss, something in a bride. There's something in the smell of a new-born babe. There's something in the smile of those you love, and there's something in a song sung in summer. -Something more than beautiful, something closer to sublime- so near perfection I can find no words for it.

"I said so little.
I could not think of replies.
The words all flew away,
up away from me, up into the trees,
where they shout, shout for joy."

It is these tastes of perfection that make me cry- that make my heart swell so full I think it'd burst and break- and so I weep.

Shout, shout for joy.

*Lyrics from Shout for Joy by The Innocence Mission.

PURGING

2011-05-14T22:18:00.001-04:00

Today I purge- today I sift through the work of the past nine months and decide what is worth keeping. I sit amongst piles of (expensive) textbooks, folders full of papers, endless notebooks half-filled with psychology and marketing notes… pages full of things I was supposed to remember… and have already forgotten. I feel like I’m selecting memories.

I’m a memento kind of person. (Somewhere in a folder I have grass from a field I played in when I was eleven.) And maybe since such a large part of who I am is wrapped up in writing- it is difficult for me to throw away anything my pen has touched.

But I can’t keep everything. I don’t want to keep everything. I don’t want to keep the notes from the class I detested- the grades from teachers I disliked. I don’t want to keep the assignments I rushed through- memorials to pacts with mediocrity.

But as I sort the mess into piles (keep, discard), I find myself stopping for a rest- gasping- finding I’ve been holding my breath. I fear that somehow the worth of all that work is tied up in the notes and filled out tests and assignments stacked before me… if I throw them away- where is the proof that I sat through over 400 classes? Do I reduce those hours to a single-letter grade on my transcript?

Who can measure life-experience? Who can assign a letter-grade to the before-and-after ME? Who but I can understand that it is the impressions I received and my expanded perception of the world that I have to show- not facts I (can’t) regurgitate. The papers which I hold in my wavering hands (between the trash can and the next twenty years in a folder on a shelf) seem to embody a change, a process, and a part of my life.

Can I say good-bye to part of me?

I have one folder that is particularly difficult: a large cardboard sleeve full of my art projects… from last semester. They’ve been sitting against my wall for the last five months. I worked hard on those, I really did. I fought for the grade from a particularly hard to please teacher. I forced myself to sit with my pencils and scissors and poster-boards and think outside the box. I played for hours with my glue-stick. And the result was some pretty decent projects on texture, negative space, and depth-perception. But as you can see- neither I nor anyone else is likely to ever look at them again. I don’t want to frame them. They only take up space.

Is it enough to remember?

Can I keep the life I have lived within me- without physical remembrances?

Maybe it's better this way. I need to say good-bye. I need to be ok with what has happened and what it has made me- who I am right now- and move on as I am.

So with a wrench in my heart- I slap another thick wad of papers on the discard pile.

Relief.

Down With Cloud Computing

2011-05-14T22:17:00.004-04:00

So for those of you that don't know- Blogger was down for about two days (during which posts disappeared and a large segment of blogosphere was in read-only-mode). Imagine the panic I felt when I got up yesterday morning and found my last two posts completely gone. It made me reconsider keeping hard-copies of my posts on my computer (writing notes locally and posting them to Blogger only once they're ready).

At any rate- the posts appeared to be back this morning, but weirdly tagged. I succeeded in correctly tagging them but then they got out of order... I succeeded in getting them back in order but now they say I wrote the last two today (which I didn't). Ah, well. The worst of it is that as of now many of your recent comments are gone. The Blogger authorities claim they're working on getting them back but I confess this latest fiasco leaves me with doubts as to their preservation abilities.

My apologies for your lost thoughts. You know how much I love to hear from you- please feel free to re-comment.

L.E. Fiore

Gogyohka-Thursday [34]

2011-05-14T22:02:00.003-04:00

Summer:

so many plans

till I felt

the hot sun

and I slept.

Finally

2011-05-14T22:02:00.001-04:00

I'm really quite ecstatic. My last final is over. Over. I'm all DONE! Nothing is DUE. What should I DO?!?!

It was a great day, truly. My first day of tests (last Friday) made me rather miserable. I felt sick in the middle of my first final (I've never filled out something so fast). "There goes my grade..." I thought (while feeling miserable).

But today was good. (Did I already say that?) Rejuvenated from the last two days of purposeful stillness- I woke on a day of my last finals fully peaceful. I had the car to myself- like I did my first day of school. The sky was blue. The light filtered through the new leaves making that special spring shadiness- playing with that muted, pastel, baby-green greenery.

First class- done. Second class- done. Third class- Shakespeare exam. I wrote a paper in class comparing Ophelia (Hamlet), Lavinia (Titus Andronicus), and Lady Macduff (Macbeth). I was pleased with it. My teacher said good-bye and have a good-summer, "You brightened the room," she said. And that brightened my day.

I found a picnic table fully in the sun and ate my lunch. It was a Francis lunch, like the one I wrote about last semester. I delighted in eating my lentil dhal and rice and the strawberries and cream. I wished someone would notice- those red berries drowned in pure white goodness. I felt like hailing people passing by- "Look! I'm eating strawberries and cream for LUNCH!"

Forth class- Poetry. I began writing "Poetry" in different languages on the black-board. Soon other girls joined me- the black-board became a collage of bilingual "Poetry" declarations. Kavita. Poème. Runo. Carmen. Gandicht. Dán. Then we each shared two of our own poems with the class... we snapped our fingers in applause.

Fifth class- done. I sat for a half hour out on a bench. I felt the wind on my face- I watched the sun go in and out from behind clouds and basked in its rays. A girl was sitting on a bench across from me under a tree. I told her she should come over and get a tan. She laughed and did. We talked about art history, what we wanted to do in life, and guys. (I talk to random people about random things. You should have heard a conversation I once jumped into on birthing and midwives.) She was waiting for her "Prince Charming" -quite literally- she left to meet him at the top of a flight of stairs. They went off together- under the arching trees.

Sixth class- Art History. All my hard memorization payed off. I scribbled my way blithely through the exam and handed it in. Mrs. C just smiled at me. "I'll be seeing you next semester, right?" Yes, definitely. I'm in her Modern Art class. "Keep the book." I definetly will. "Have a good summer." She gave me a hug.

And I'm done. I walked down the hallway... beaming. I can't help it. I'm incredibly happy. Perhaps more so because I didn't get to feel the relief of being done last semester (my mind was completely preoccupied with other issues at the time).

I walked up to the deli counter and asked (since it's the last day) if they have any food to give away. There's a beautiful red-head (tall and sturdy) with a Russian accent who works there. She murmurs something about me being "cute" and says, as she hands me a blueberry muffin and two Jamaican meat patties, "I was a college student once. " She tells me not to go spreading the word (there is a crowd of very large young men not too far off). I promise not to. She winks at me.

I walk to the car- munching away. I turn on the engine and the music.

The summer stretches before me- with all its goals, work, and splendid vacation. My windows are down. I'm smiling at the future. And in my ears there rings a tune that goes like this:

Life is a highway, and I wanna ride it all night long. - Rascal Flatts.

*Photo of me by Sarah Emmett.

Be STILL?!?

2011-05-08T21:33:00.001-04:00

There's a verse in the psalms... Be still and know that I am God. [Psalm 46:10] In a passing moment in a sermon on Jacob this morning, my pastor asked us- "How often are we actually still?" It struck me.

Eek. I love being still. Really, I do. I love to betake myself to quiet places. I love to think. But I'm in the middle of college finals. And lately it feels like my life has been lived for the next day, the next test, the next accomplished goal, the next season. I don't know if it's that I don't have time to think- I just haven't made time to think- or that at the moment my life is so full of things I could be thinking about that the amount of conclusions I could be coming to and self-evaluations I could be doing is overwhelming. Maybe I'm running from thinking. Maybe I'm not letting myself be still enough to remember WHO God is.

It's not like I don't know at all. But I know in the intellectual sense- the sense in which one says, "I feel this other way- but despite what I feel I will trust in what I know to be true." I feel like I'm running- headlong through each day- barely missing crash after crash after disastrous crash. I feel like I'm in yet one another of those periods in my life where amidst busyness and chaos and rampant emotions I whisper, "God, I need you to carry me today."

But I miss knowing- knowing in a wonderful, still sort of sense- not the survival sense. It's amazing because even amidst my panicked craziness I have been astounded by the amount of blessing God has poured out on me. (Why? Me? Why does He bless me when I'm too busy to be still? Your love still amazes me.)

Three more days till the end of the semester. And then my Holiday begins. Holy days. I plan on recuperating from the wreckage wreaked on my body, mind, spirit- and my room. I can't wait. But what about now? Isn't now when I need Him? Today? As Martin Luther put it, "I'm so busy I can't afford not to pray." What better way can I prepare for tomorrow? I need this.

I will be still and know that He is God.

Gogyohka-Thursday [33]

2011-05-05T15:15:00.003-04:00

It's Spring:

flowers blushing-

couples kissing-

parking lots

full of motorcycles.

Random News Flash From a Fanatical Writer

2011-05-01T22:29:00.001-04:00

GUESS WHAT!?! It's today. I get to start a whole, new, fresh, blank diary.

I'm a diary writer. Did you know that?

I began my first real diary when I was ten... but I stopped... my life didn't seem interesting enough to me- and what was the point in writing in that beautiful, little, red-velvet bound journal if it would be filled up before all I had to say was written down?

Then I was twelve. And on May 27th, 2005, my grandmother gave me a huge, gorgeous, 2'' thick VOLUME... lined, blank, and waiting. And so I began. I decided I had to write regardless of how interesting the day was. And I would write a page- a whole page- always- every day. I missed two days in the first six months.

I haven't missed a day since.

Those diaries have heard everything. It was- and still is- a growing experience- as I learn how to craft a day into a page- that page into a memory. I've learned what not to write down- so that it won't be remembered. And I have found an incredible delight in rereading the pages of past years and seeing God's sovereign hand unfold my life.

Each diary has a name. I'm not sure why- perhaps it's habit- perhaps I have some fundamental need to feel like I'm writing to someone. I choose each name very carefully- weighing the name's sound, the way it writes, and its meaning. The name becomes a sort of person- and that entity comes to embody that year.

And tonight I have a new name to write on the first of 400 beautiful, blank pages. I have chosen a name which means Wisdom- for I've been thinking and reading of wisdom lately ("If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God (...) and it shall be given him." - James 1:5) and this year I feel a need for it more than ever. So here we go.

Tonight begins my new year.

Gogyohka-Thursday [32]

2011-04-28T13:54:00.001-04:00

it's raining

we find shelter

we stay warm

we gaze in triumph out at the wetness

such is man

Morning Walk

2011-04-27T18:41:00.005-04:00

I was struck by how light it was when I got up at six this morning. This Wednesday was a bit different than usual- our class was to convene at the Vanderbilt Mansion for a walk. I've been there on multiple occasions. I'm not fond of the house as rich, large, or old houses go but the grounds are beautiful. In summer the gardens are full or roses and fountains and archways (very romantic) and there is an open field surrounded by very tall shady trees (perfect for sleeping under) and of course there is the river-walk (and I have heard tales of a trail).

Down the descending asphalt path we began- small, meaningless chatter reverberating throughout my group of classmates. I hear someone mention Middle Earth, "Did you know they're making The Hobbit?" I remark. The girl turns and looks at me blankly (earphones in her ears) and queries, "You look like a hobbit?" Everyone giggles. She explains about the earphones. I laugh because I'm short enough that I do look a bit hobbitish- minus the feet hair.

There lay this morning over the river a great fog- we couldn't see the other side as we walked down (just a billowing white duvet warming the sleepy river). It had rained- giant earthworms lounged on the road. At one point a dirt path lead away over a hill towards the river, "A short cut!" was the general exclamation- and the group split. A friend and I jested about the possible outcome of our choice to stay on trusty asphalt, "Is this the strait road that leads to salvation? Or the wide and easy road that leads to destruction?" We all got there ok so it was alright.

I went right up to the water. It seemed very close and intimate on account of the mist- and having gone through woods and being so far from the road. I edged out onto a rock low down and stuck my hands in the mighty Hudson. So cold. So real.

In another place there were more rocks and lots of slate stones. I gathered flat ones to my liking from tide pools. We practiced skipping. One of the guys could get his to go five or six times (the most I got was three). There was an iron ring stuck into the rock- where once Vanderbilt boats might have docked. One of the woman (a large Texan of German descent) informed me they really aught to tie me to the hook with a chain and leave me to the sea urchins (and I promptly invoked the rescue of Perseus).

As we girls clambered back up the gorge and I listened to the female small-talk, which so easily turns from subject to subject- worms, to the heat, to the rising of the mountain, to the Vanderbilts (I told what little I know of them), to what one girl called "west egg" and "east egg" (I had no idea what she was talking about) and some movie which was made from some book which everyone reads in High School and what in the world was that- (I hit upon it) - The Great Gatsby.

I wished I could stop... I had wanted to read and write in the rose gardens... But we walked instead. The benches looked so inviting- perfect for two to sit upon and gaze out in communal, comfortable silence at the mountains and river. Maybe next time. But it was time to get going for our next class... and my pen and notebook were in the car.

So this is my memorial of the morning.

This is My Body Broken For You

2011-04-24T13:34:00.004-04:00

The pastor invited us to partake. This is my body- broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me.

Snap! Crack! As the Good Friday communion matzo broke and snapped into a thousand pieces in my mouth, I suddenly had a tangible knowledge of "brokenness" wash over me.

My mind began to muse... The perfect, sinless One... broken... but His body wasn't really broken, was it? Not a bone... then what did it mean? Are we referring to His flesh being scourged and lacerated?

But more importantly (this is where my mind went next) who broke it? The Jews who called for His crucifixion? The government who condemned an innocent man? The Gentiles who nailed His feet and hands?

It always strikes me how many people were involved in Christ's crucifixion- Jews and Gentiles- and so all peoples are there- partaking in guilt. There's a John Michael Talbot song that goes something like, "Would you crucify him? Talkin' bout the sweet Lord Jesus- if he walked right here among you once again?" The answer of my heart always says "yes." Natural man hates God. If He hadn't saved me- I'd have been right there cursing and condemning. Purity and righteousness are hateful to a heart that loves sin.

Though the pastor touched on one of my favorite points in regards to the crucifixion- (that it was the spiritual alienation between Christ and His Father, the severing of the Godhead, that was the true torture of the cross)- this Easter Sunday my thoughts keep coming back to the idea of brokenness. "But he was wounded for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his stripes we are healed" (Isaiah 53:5, ESV). I keep feeling... and hearing... the snapping and crushing of the bread under my tongue and teeth...

This is my body... broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me.

Gogyohka-Thursday [32]

2011-04-21T12:06:00.000-04:00

you look up

I smile

you smile

now both our days

will be better

Babes

2011-04-19T07:18:00.000-04:00

The other day I went to the mall. I don't normally do something like that, but I needed to get out of the house, and I needed to get errands done, so off I went. I bought my mother tea-cups to replace the one I'd broken that morning and I tried on clothes and shoes (which I didn't buy) and got myself lunch (comforting Mexican food).

The mall was remarkably quiet. It was a Thursday morning. I found the warmest place in the open seating area- where the sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling and had warmed the table and chairs (because I felt cold- inside and out) and positioned myself so I could see the play area around the carousel.

I watched as young mothers talked amongst themselves- and as their golden-haired toddlers romped through mini jungle gyms and hugged (or hit) the plastic, animal playmates which charmed the indoor playground.

As I watched the curly pony-tails bob and little-boy feet traipse over every obstacle- I thought in waves of emotion- turning one upon the next. They were so innocent. So small. And so beautiful. Do you remember when you were still young enough to be called a "little kid" and so you avoided "little kids" like the plague? And then you thought kids were kinda cute. And then you wanted one. And then- someday- I suppose you got one of your own.

They were laughing. They were peaking their heads into the shoe cubbyholes. They were smiling at strangers. They were jumping on cuddly looking bears and wrapping their arms around flannel trees. I wished I could take off my shoes. I wished I could shrink back into three-year-old size and go exploring in a plastic tunnel.

Where did life go? When were my worst problems whether my shoe was too tight or the spilling of my orange juice? When were fairy tales and baby dolls enough to make me happy? And when did they cease to content me? I suppose it was when I began holding real babies, playing with real food, met real princes, and fought real battles.

I was holding baby Timmy in church- well, that is- he's nearly one and today I thought he looked less like a baby than ever and more like a little boy. He is the chunkiest, manliest, most smiley little guy I've ever seen (with wide, big blue eyes which want to see everything in the world). I've only heard him cry once (he was tired and I was putting him to bed). It delighted my heart to have him in my arms, sweet perfection.

Why don't we stay that way? Practically perfect? When I look at other people's lives I typically wind up thinking my problems are pretty small. And they are- in the grand scale of things. But the problems of choices, circumstances, the present, and the future are only the outward signs that people compare their lives by. I see children and don't just see simplicity- I also see a clean slate. Because most of my life-problems are inside of me. And the more I learn of them the more I am disgusted by how deeply the roots of my problems go. They started years ago. Even when I was playing.

And so I am filled with a longing for the fresh and the new and the clean. It is the blessedness of being a child of God that he offers us this "newness" every morning. I want to be reborn every day.

Beat Box

2011-04-17T16:09:00.000-04:00

This is a poem I wrote for school. Our assignment was to write four stanzas with each line having the same syllable count. [Note: this is a poem. Places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.]

Bouncing down the sidewalk-

Keys clank in my pocket-

Hop in my Camry, hike

that music way up high.

Bobbing to this rhythm,

beat throbbing through the car.

Palms spank the wheel, playing.

Head bops up, down, smiles wide.

Then I fall to thinking

on the lyrics running

through my dancing, blissful

head- I’m swirling around.

Swerve! Regain- thump of my

pounding heart. I am still.

The car pulses. Beat box

brings me back to bouncing.

Gogyohka-Thursday [31]

2011-04-14T15:12:00.000-04:00

cloud

soft cherry blossoms

if my hair was black

we would dance

my fingers would not make you wither

Remembering Reality

2011-04-09T21:00:00.001-04:00

It's been an emotional week. I felt panicky all Sunday and Monday for no good reason whatsoever. My stomach was in knots, my blood was racing, and I felt a constant impulse to cry. I have my theories. I think maybe I'd been happy for too long and my body was thinking to its confused self, "We have too many unused tears stored up here. Let's make her do something crazy so she cries!" But it didn't work. So I just felt weird all week. Then on Thursday I finally had something happen worth crying over and afterwords I felt more or less (physically) better. But, then there was the reason I was crying in the first place- so I was back to square one.

This morning rolled round. I always know that Spring is finally here when the crocuses pop their cheery heads up from the sulking earth. My brothers had gone on a hike. My mother had gone shopping. My neighbors were having a party (who knows why) and I was stuck at home with myself (myself!) and a pile of homework.

It was a prime opportunity to be royally miserable. I considered putting on all my sad, moody music and making a day of it.

But before I got to work I went through my routine habit of being unproductive for about twenty-minutes- checking all my tabs, blogs, and e-mail. I stumbled upon a fellow blogger's musings (yes, you, Natalie) about worship, joy, and glorying in God. She said, "Joy is something that has to be fought for recklessly. Will I fight? Will you?" Yes. Yes! Where was my joy? Where was the precious joy which I so prize and treasure? I needed that post. I needed to remember reality. I resolved: Today I will glory in God.

So I decided not to listen to my sad music. Instead I put on Sons of Korah and began listening to their wonderful rendition of Psalm 95. As the notes drifted through my room and bounced of my sun-lit window panes I felt my spirit rising- rising- lifting up to God in song.

Come, let us sing with joy to the Lord. My fingers reached towards Heaven. Come, let us shout to the Rock of Salvation.

I felt my soul pouring out again to my God. Come before Him with thanksgiving. I remembered His Grace and Goodness in my life- and I remembered the overwhelming glory of His throne. For He is our God.

I've asked "why?" of Him a lot lately. But amidst uncertainty, pain, happiness, excitement, stress, and change, I learn yet again that the answer to every question is: God. He is strong, mighty to save- and I am His- and He is mine. And that is enough. And that is everything.

Come let us, come let us, bow down in worship.

Come let us, come let us, kneel before God our Creator.

Gogyohka-Thursday [30]

2011-04-07T07:11:00.001-04:00

This-

my 30th Gogyohka-Thursday

and my 100th post-

deserves celebration!

Me want cake.

And Then I Showed It To Dad

2011-04-05T22:11:00.000-04:00

It is a curse to be a writer. Truly. A curse.

I get ideas in the middle of the night. Right before I'm supposed to sleep an idea pops into my head- a phrase, a concoction of lines, a single sentence which sparks an entire monologue. My best ideas usually come to me at night. I know better than to ignore them. What makes it all worse is that I am typically incapable of remembering an idea for more than five minutes. -So the light goes back on. I grope for a pen and scrap of paper- and write.

Sometimes the simple act of getting the idea outside of myself is enough. But even then (and certainly if I keep it within) often my brain takes the idea and runs with it and the race of my brain keeps me up forever- as I think and create things that will be lost by the time I wake up.

So about three nights ago I had such an occurrence. An idea. I grabbed the pen and paper.

I had no time to write it up yesterday because I was at school. And even today I had a long list of school assignments, but the idea was plaguing my mind. So I gave into this disease- this plague- this madness called writing. I flipped to my notes, I grabbed some water and almonds, I let my fingers touch these keys, and instinct took over.

I wrote for a good three hours strait... and then worked on the thing for another three hours or so. Needless to say I got little school done. But I was pretty happy with the results. It was a story. An allegory of sorts- and theological at that. I'd never done something in that venue before but really, people, it was decent.

Then I showed it to Dad. He reads so fast. And when he was done he told me it was too short (for the questions I asked) and I needed to write a book on it.

A book?!!

People. I don't want to write a book. I barely have enough time to blog. But to an extent I agree with my Daddy- the story needs flushing out and fine-tuning. So stay tuned. But not too tuned. It may take a while.

Because tomorrow I go back to school... and hopefully other, easier ideas will come to me to write about- and hopefully not too late- 'cause I have exams coming up and I need my sleep.

Letters

2011-04-02T09:22:00.000-04:00

There's nothing quite like getting a letter in the mail.

On several occasions I have hypothesized on just what it is that separates cards from letters and e-cards from e-mails. There seems to be a hierarchy of specialness which I want to understand- so I can master- so I can act not in instinct but concrete knowledge.

There is, we well know, an entire art to letter writing- the composition of the letter, the content of the letter, the voice of the letter, and the aesthetic of the letter. Does someone get right to the point? Do they ramble, rhapsodize, or hurl themselves down rabbit trails? Is the envelope plain? Do they decorate it with flowers? Romantic? Business? Classy? Cute? Feminine?

I began letter writing when I was about seven or eight. I remember how each letter would begin.

Dear Samantha,

How are you? I'm doing fine.

(After a year or so I grew tired of that.)

Dear Samantha,

Salutations!

(Getting all fancy.)

Now I say whatever I want to say- and so I think it is the truest expression of myself. Yes. Isn't it that very expression of self which compels us to read letters- blogs, books, e-mails- in the first place? Because I know that I have for years, whenever I sign onto my e-mail, network, or Facebook- I hope against hope that someone- anyone- will have thought of me- and written.

"What will NY152 say today, I wonder. I turn on my computer. I wait impatiently as it connects. I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You've got mail. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beating of my own heart. I have mail. From you." -You've Got Mail

I think it is the thought that counts. Because it's not about whether you compose a masterpiece. It is about the unmatchable knowledge that someone, amidst their life, stopped and crafted, communicated, a message from out of themselves to nobody but you.

I always save letters (and messages and e-mails) for special moments, free of distraction (sometimes I even make myself clean my room just so I'll have visual peace when I read them). Then I saver every word and reread every line. Your comments on my posts brighten my face. An e-mail makes my day. But letters, letters make my spirit dance.

Then what is it about a letter?

The physical existence of the letter, I think, has something to do with it. E-mails don't really exist. Numbers inside wires send little messages and light flashes on the screen- just as easily gone- just as easily annihilated all together. Existence is part of a letter's specialness.

I speculate that handwriting plays a large role as well. A person's handwriting is an extension of themselves- the very imprint that their hands have made. Personality on a page. You can not help but feel physically closer to someone when you have the work of their hands in your own.

Letter - noun 1: The concrete culmination of all the heart-to-heart communication that souls wish for... when apart.

So talk to me.

Gogyohka-Thursday [29]

2011-03-31T14:36:00.000-04:00

I fear I'll wake

and find this happiness

a dream- but my dreams

have never been

this happy

There and Back (AGAIN!)

2011-03-29T08:27:00.034-04:00

I learned something about myself yesterday. It took all day (or ten years, depending on how you figure) to learn it, but I think. I. finally. did.

My sister and I took Katie sight-seeing in the city. The Hudson Line took us down (courting the river for miles and miles giving us beautiful scenic views). Grand Central. I love the great expanse of the Main Concourse. I love the sea of people in black coats which swarm across its floor. We grabbed bagels at our favorite bagel place. The ladies working behind the counter barked at the mob before them, "Who's next! Who's next! Who's next!"

Weaving our way down to the subway (keeping an anxious eye on gawking Katie), we figured out which line we needed to get on and went through the turnstiles. The crowd pushed closer, "Maybe we should do more hand-holding," I joked anxiously. But then there was our awaiting subway. "Let's get in that one" said Sarah, indicating the car in front of us.

New York City always brings out the fiercely independent streak in me. I stepped onto that car with confidence. I had already woven two good steps though the crowd towards a seat when I heard my name being called. I turned around. The doors had closed. And Sarah and Katie were on the other side.

It should have been in a movie. Separated by glass. Train taking me away. The roar of the engines. The frantic gestures, "Wait for me!" The look of shock, the pounding heart, then the stunned silence.

Eventually I looked around, a young woman caught my eye. "Don't worry, it happens all the time." I exchanged pleasantries, but silence brought thoughts pounding into my head. Another woman spoke to me, her Indian accent thick, "How will you meet up with your friends?" I told her I would wait at the next stop. She seemed to approve.

I got off. The platform grew quiet. Union Square. I suddenly had a panicy thought. I had our shared metro card, what if they couldn't ride the train? No, it wasn't a train, it was a subway- we'd already paid.... but what if they got an Express line and they didn't stop at my stop? I would check the next train's cars very carefully.

It was a good thing I did- because Sarah and Katie had had no intention of getting off at my station- they were going to wait at our destination, the Bowling Green. But we saw each other and reunited. Laughing. Amused. Relieved. My stomach a little shaken.

After the Staten Island Ferry we walked down to Ground Zero, which was gated and thick with construction. We approached one worker to ask where we might be able to get the best view and he replied, with a swinging Italian accent, "Wella, you're not'a going to see too mucha." An Irish man intervened. "Take ah right, go 'round tha block, take tha overpass to tha building, and yah'll be able tu see it froom tha bridge." Thank you.

We walked through the World Financial Center- with its marbled floors and countless young men in ties and suits (chatting, presumably, about desperately important things like interests and loans and the stock market).

While we were riding the subway up to 86th street two men boarded with drums. They greeted all of the New Yorkers with their blank faces and ear-buds in. "HI!!!" I replied. They were struck. The man addressed the car: "That's what we LIKE! Hey, ya'know if more people show respect like THAT then the world be a better place, ya'know?!" They played, their inner beat flowing to their mouth and the palms of their hands. Just before they left one turned to me, "Where you from?" he demands. "New York." "Are you sure?!" and he's gone. "California" probably would have satisfied him more.

We walked thirty blocks down Madison Avenue window-shopping. We gushed over flounced baby-girl clothes and strapping little-man clothes, laughed at frilly purses displayed on ostriches, and compared decorating styles. (While Katie and I related to the modern, sheik style, we agreed that we would always pick warm and woody over glass and steel). We shared a sourdough baguette, and bought ourselves treats from La Maison du Chocolat. [The man behind the counter claimed he remembered me from past years (I think he didn't) and he began speaking in French as we left.] I always look at that tiny piece of chocolate (smaller- maybe half the size of a Girl-Scout Cookie) in my hand and wonder why I pay so much money for something so small. We all wonder. But then you bite off the corner and the tender delicacy of that long-brewed chocolate potion completely and in every way overwhelms you. Perfection in a bite. THAT is chocolate. THAT is why it is worth it.

We had a splendid time in Tiffany's ring department comparing cuts and styles and marveling at the fiery brilliance of the sedentary gems. The salespersons were surprisingly accommodating. We were, after all, three young women. For all they knew we had some of the before-mentioned snazzy-looking business men interested in us. (We laughed because all three of us girls couldn't imagine anyone spending so much on a ring when an equally pretty one could be found that wouldn't burn your fiance's pockets and leave you with guilty feelings for the rest of your life.)

After Tiffany's we saw St. Patrick's Cathedral. On a whim I asked one of the caretakers to see the crypt (we're family of Bishop Sheen) and who of all people should be available but Father Joe, (whom our family had met at the Bishop Sheen memorial party two years ago). He recognized me- even remembered where we lived, and started talking about his findings to a theological question we'd been arguing about. He told us some great juicy stories about each of the men buried under the alter and afterwords we said the Our Father together.

By this time we were exhausted, so Katie texted her fiance and he gave us directions to the nearest Starbucks where we got hot drinks, put up our feet, and delighted in girl-talk for an hour or two. Rejuvenated, it was off to Time Square (where we bugged a policemen about directions to a movie theater and took lots of pictures) and then we wrapped up with pizza, gyros, and Indian food at Grand Central.

We were on the train. We were done visiting. We were going home. Rivers. Trees. Quiet. You know I've always liked the city. I really do. How can you not love history and beauty and people? But I've always known I could never live there. And that night as we journeyed home I realized something more. Maybe it was being in the city twice in five days. Maybe it was our conversations about work and life and how hideous certain dresses, offensive certain adds, expensive certain baby-clothes, and extravagant certain rings were. Maybe it has been being at my college and getting closer to drugs and alcohol and the image-consciousness of our culture, but I think my materialistic streak (which I spoke of in my first New York post) has been somehow severely subdued.

I have learned, or discovered, or maybe just decided: I am a country mouse.

Narcotics Anonymous

2011-03-25T22:55:00.004-04:00

When my teacher told us that one of the semester’s assignments was to visit an open NA meeting I sighed, rolled my eyes, and inwardly quipped about state-run education.

Tonight I got it over with- I went to a nearby meeting at the church of a friend’s. It was wildly different than I expected.

Narcotics Anonymous is not a government program. It is comprised entirely of addicts, and specifically of individuals who have come to a place where they realize they are addicts, they realize they have an addiction, and are making steps to overcome that addiction.

There is, of course, not much I can tell you- I respect the spirit of that closely-knit fellowship: what happens in that meeting stays in that meeting.

But I can tell you that as I listened to each individual share their thoughts (on randomly drawn popsicles sticks with principles of the program written on them)- as I heard each of them honestly face the problem of that week, that day, even that very hour- my heart went out to them. I heard them face themselves, talk about guilt and shame, their own selfishness, and recognize the multitude of people they had hurt (including themselves). They had broken families. Broken relationships. Broken careers. Broken hearts. Broken lives. And as each spoke my heart broke- again, and again, and again. I wanted to weep- but I could not add to their pain.

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, And wisdom to know the difference."

One particularly interesting saying one person drew went something like, “I can’t. He can. Let him.” They wrestled with “surrendering” to God and his will (and God’s will becoming theirs), even while taking responsibility for their actions.

There they were. Many were still users- maybe only clean for twenty-four hours. A slender few had been clean for years- and still struggled, day by day by day. I rejoiced over their heart-felt support of one another and their earnest desire to conquer their addiction- to be “at peace and free.” I rejoiced that they recognized that they had to rely on and desperately needed God- knowing that every bit of truth is a means of grace in their lives, and cried that though they be able to will themselves out of addiction- they would remain slaves to sin without Christ.

And there I was- different. But why? I felt lavishly blessed- insurmountably undeserving. Why was I never tempted, never offered a pill, a single fix? Why did my parents never abandon me? Why was I not there, burning and breaking like they were?

I had never touched any sort of substance- never even seen any (by God’s grace). I had parents who loved each other, a family crazy about one another (by God’s grace). I had a precious, safe-guarded childhood (by God’s grace). And, true, God rescued me from myself, washed me clean in his blood (by God’s grace) and I am who, what, and where I am today by God’s grace.

My heart is heavy.

I have been given a perfect life. I have never struggled. I have not been tested to the point of shedding blood.

Gogyohka-Thursday [28]

2011-03-24T06:27:00.000-04:00

A God-thing:

In whispering to my brother

I missed the first offering-plate.

The whole of my tithe

went to Japan.

Oh, Spontaneity!

2011-03-22T21:32:00.002-04:00

The plan for Sunday was very simple: church and then a surprise outing to one of our favorite local restaurants, McKinney & Doyle. But after the service our parents engaged in a rather important (and lengthy) conversation with a fellow church member. Eventually my dad turned to me, handed me the keys to the Camry, and told me to take a bunch of us home. I grabbed my two sisters, Sarah's friend from college (Katie), and Peter, and off we went.

It was a truly spring day (before the snow hit yesterday). The ground was bare- daffodils blinked shyly, and the sky was blue. We rolled down the windows a bit and my iPod went on. One of the first songs up set the mood, "I love you more... than the spring in its blooming against the sky." (Ought To Be, Audrey Assad).

Then came Lucky (Jason Mraz) and all the girls (the seven year old mostly smiled) began to sing... "Lucky I'm in love with my best friend / lucky to have been what I have been..."

Then came the Newsboys- and the car began to bop. We sang our hearts out in unified consent, "I'm not ashamed to speak the name of Jesus Christ!" We were enjoying ourselves immensely. I looked sidelong at my sister, "Take the long way home?" Yes. We wove in and out around brimming reservoirs and the iPod hit a run on Beach Boys...

Well she got her daddy's car
And she cruised through the hamburger stand now
Seems she forgot all about the library
Like she told her old man now
And with the radio blasting
Goes cruising just as fast as she can now
And she'll have fun, fun, fun
'Til her daddy takes the T-Bird away

Surfer Girl. Catch a Wave. The sun was bright, our smiles were brighter. We cruised into the driveway. When I reached the door I heard the phone ringing- I rushed in and caught the phone off the receiver on the umpteenth ring- it was Dad. He'd sent me with the Suburban keys- he, Mom, and the boys were stranded at church. So back off I went, this time by myself.

I skipped to my favorite songs. As I drove (a little faster this time) I suddenly had the odd sensation of seeing myself- as I couldn't have imagined just twelve months- let alone twelve years- ago.

There I was. Living in New York (of all places). Driving down back roads to pick up my parents (of all things). Listening to country love songs (of all music). On a spring Sunday in 2011 (of all times).

By the time we all united at home it was about three o'clock. We all piled into the Suburban and were just about to leave when we called the restaurant and discovered they were closed. Nobody felt like going inside to have PB&J. We were hungry.

In fact, we were so hungry I think we were a bit crazed. We wanted food. REAL food. Dad made a suggestion, the members of the car erupted in loudly voiced opinions in true Democratic form- parents used their executive rights to overrule the few dissenters and the next thing we knew the nine of us were making the hour+ trip down to NYC to go to Flor De Mayo.

We grabbed some chips to tide us over. We were scarcely twenty minutes down the road when, to our dismay, it was discovered in our spontaneity no one had grabbed a camera. Katie, my sister's friend, was particularly disappointed since this was her first time going into the city. (Thus I am writing this post, to immortalize the occasion.)

At Flor De Mayo (Peruvian-Chinese cuisine) we ordered the timeless favorites: two whole rotisserie chickens, four large orders of black beans and yellow rice, and several plates of maduros and avocado. On such occasions, manners are temporarily disbanded. There is much grabbing and yumming and clashing of forks and general silence as the meal is consumed. As Katie attested, it was well worth the wait.

We drove down Broadway to show Katie Time Square. There was much traffic- we gazed up at show signs and advertisements and read the newsflashes on the economy and wars and talks and treaties scrolling in large neon letters around a building.

Just as we passed the Apple store (giant glass conservatory of technology), Dad pulled the truck over and said he had to go see something (presumably something in the Apple store) and Mom should take the car around the block to pick him up. Then he was gone. Mom looked amused, climbed over into the driver's seat, and began driving around. Crazy. Jammed. Loud. Broadway. We had only gotten half way around the block when we suddenly saw Dad running up (already done) and he hopped back in the car. Mom whirled around and said to Katie, "All the stories you heard about us were true."

We drove through Central Park (past the petting zoo and barred doors leading into the hillside, under overpasses, betwixt stone-walls). At some point during the evening we sang the George Washington Bridge song.

Then we were driving home... back upstate. The tall buildings turned to tall trees, parks turned to lakes, noise into the single melody of a Rascal Flatts song on a country station.

Sometimes I can hear this old earth shouting (...)

That's when I climb up here on this mountain
To look through God's window

Now I can't fly, but I've got two feet
To get me high up here
Above the noise and city streets
My worries disappear

Gogyohka-Thursday [27]

2011-03-17T17:52:00.005-04:00

sun bathing

my too-long cold limbs

while the dog

chases cats and butterflies

and bounds, grinning, head-first into me

Room Rhapsody

2011-03-16T20:36:00.006-04:00

Rooms are like clothes and photographs- they tell stories. As I look around mine this afternoon- my mind goes tripping down the trails of my life... remembering what has been that has brought what I see around me.

Tucked into the glass doors of my secretary I see the pictures of people I hold dear (from California, Louisiana, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, Georgia...). Above them are verses which I have printed on parchment paper and magazine cuttings of India. Behind the pictures I have lists of IP, e-mail, and street addresses, letters, and a piece of paper on which my dad has scrawled guitar chords.

Inside my secretary it all gets even better. I hide my few paperbacks behind the glass doors and verses. I have my Hindi dictionary and Indian travel guides, empty and half-filled notebooks made with hand-crafted paper, anthologies, and several Russian novels. The top shelf has my CDs and DVDs (Pride and Prejudice!) and the bottom shelf has my diary and Bible and hair-spray (which I have yet to use but am glad I have) and a canister of Starbucks Hot Chocolate powder which my siblings gave me for my birthday.

The drawers below my desk each have a specific purpose. One has all my scarves (I have a good twenty, half are from India). Another is completely devoted to letter-crafting- I have stacks of stationary, boxes of cards and envelopes, and a couple compact water-color sets (a nod to past and present wistful artistic leanings).

The bottom drawer is a mystery drawer. I'm not exactly sure what it's for. Generally speaking it's hard to open. But I know that inside I have a scarlet tapestry almost as large as me- covered in patchwork and embroidery which I bought in Pushkar, India. And also in that drawer I have a painting done by an artist who I thought was going to shake my hand but who kissed it instead.

My bookshelves are my favorite part of my room. I have about fifty small, gilt-edged books (arranged by color) from a collector's library which grace the bookshelves over my windows- flanked by carved elephants. My main bookshelf (which my sister and father made when I was six) has lots and lots of hard-backs, all there for one of four merits: being very old (i.e. 100-200 years), being very beautiful (inner beauty counts!), or being on India or poetry. The exceptions are my diaries. There are four currently full- massive bulks full of my scribblings. (And if you ever see them in person, don't you dare read them or I'll have to do you in!)

In other places I have stacks of my drawings from 2nd grade and the novels I wrote when I was twelve and thirteen. And somewhere I have packages of letters tied up in ribbons- and a shoe-box in which there are the sleeves of my favorite pajamas from when I was nine, a pine-cone from a sidewalk in California, an empty shampoo bottle from Venice, a wind-up musical bell, shards from a wooden box, and magazine cuttings (who's value, I happen to know, lies solely with the blue-eyed-blonds they feature. One of them is of Prince Harry- you will forgive me.)

I happen to think Shakespeare wasn't really Shakespeare. He only willed away his second-best bed (by which we know he hated his wife) and a great deal of money. Could someone so in love with language really not possess a single book for posterity to gossip about?

But then again, I think if I was Shakespeare my biographers would have a hay-day with my will. From the bottle-caps (which I collected when I was ten) they'd think I drank. From my three plants they would have no idea I killed five. They would probably think I actually used my hairspray. And as I wouldn't will my bed (best or second best) to anyone they would probably come up with something about me hating men.

But while I must concede that the contents of one's room are wide-open to misinterpretation, I yet maintain that they are also glimpses into entire lives- open to countless conjectures and hypotheses.

Thus I sit here and wonder freely: what would I find in your room? And what would it tell me about you?