For the last 10 months, I’ve been teaching Latin dance-based fitness classes at various places around town. My classes are popular among good-humored women who are 50 or older, and so when I teach, I feel like I’m sharing something joyful with extended family. We do Salsa and the Cumbia, and all sorts of dances that involve shaking our hips in a manner that is new to most folks in my class. I dance my heart out, trying to give everyone in the class permission to do the same.
A few days ago, one of my dancers said she was finally satisfied with a hip sway that she’d been trying for almost six months. Her sister, who is also in the class, asked her how she did it, and she replied that it was the same movement she used when a cow leaned against her and trapped her while she was milking. She demonstrated, thrusting her hips quickly from side to side and calling, “Move over!”
I feel like I’ve really come home.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Snowmobiles
Miniature “yield” signs barely peek over the snow on each side of our driveway. At the start of the season, they stood more than 3 feet tall on iron posts, but during the snowy winter, the ditch has filled until only the red and white triangles are visible. It looks as though the signs are tucked into the snow with one corner and secured that way.
The signs are for the snowmobiles that cruise down our ditches. I am not sure how many of the drivers actually see the yield signs, especially on Saturday nights. Little troops of them, approach single file in the dark, looking like bright points of light speeding towards us in the dark. They gather speed in the ditch then vault up the steep little slope that leads up to our driveway. They go airborne. They soar across our drive, thump down on the other side, and speed away down into the ditch in a fury of noise and headlights.
After it snows, a John Deere tractor with tracks instead of wheels laboriously drives down the ditch during the afternoon, dragging some kind of implement behind it to groom the trail. The implement levels the little walls of white that build up along the edges of our driveway. As the tractor heads back down the steep slope from our driveway into our ditch, the implement often goes askew. A patient looking man often hops out of the cab without a jacket, makes an adjustment to the implement, and dutifully pushes on towards the south.
In spite of the care that goes into preparing their trail, the snowmobiles often sound kind of cranky, like children complaining about a home-cooked dinner. When I am outside, I hear small engines whine back and forth in complaining phrases punctuated by silence. Sometimes they join in an undulating chorus that is almost like the howling of coyotes, except it is lower and less ethereal.
After listening to the howling snowmobiles all winter, I again heard the actual coyotes. I am still afraid of those animals, and I am still bitter because I suspect that they ate my beloved cat. When I heard them though, my heart jumped with gladness for the first time, and the eerie tones made me feel more alive. Before I could think, I spoke to the coyotes: “Thank God you're still here.”
The signs are for the snowmobiles that cruise down our ditches. I am not sure how many of the drivers actually see the yield signs, especially on Saturday nights. Little troops of them, approach single file in the dark, looking like bright points of light speeding towards us in the dark. They gather speed in the ditch then vault up the steep little slope that leads up to our driveway. They go airborne. They soar across our drive, thump down on the other side, and speed away down into the ditch in a fury of noise and headlights.
After it snows, a John Deere tractor with tracks instead of wheels laboriously drives down the ditch during the afternoon, dragging some kind of implement behind it to groom the trail. The implement levels the little walls of white that build up along the edges of our driveway. As the tractor heads back down the steep slope from our driveway into our ditch, the implement often goes askew. A patient looking man often hops out of the cab without a jacket, makes an adjustment to the implement, and dutifully pushes on towards the south.
In spite of the care that goes into preparing their trail, the snowmobiles often sound kind of cranky, like children complaining about a home-cooked dinner. When I am outside, I hear small engines whine back and forth in complaining phrases punctuated by silence. Sometimes they join in an undulating chorus that is almost like the howling of coyotes, except it is lower and less ethereal.
After listening to the howling snowmobiles all winter, I again heard the actual coyotes. I am still afraid of those animals, and I am still bitter because I suspect that they ate my beloved cat. When I heard them though, my heart jumped with gladness for the first time, and the eerie tones made me feel more alive. Before I could think, I spoke to the coyotes: “Thank God you're still here.”
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
A whole conversation
A couple weeks ago, I went to the woods across the street and stood in the snow, listening. I told the woods that I loved them, and I rested in the peace that I feel among the trees.
My mind wandered, and I realized that for more than half of my adult life, I have been totally financially dependent on my husband. Although this seems like the best choice for our family, it weighs on me. I had been looking forward to developing our farm and bringing in some more money, but now it looks like that plan will be delayed for several years while I give most of my energy to mothering.
"You don't make money either," I told the trees offhandedly. Then something completely new happened. The trees answered me, quickly, in a way that I could understand.
"That's right," they said. "We don't make any money. But we make songs." I nodded. I hear the songs when I listen carefully. They vibrate up to the sky like chords played on an enormous guitar. "You make songs too," they said.
"We make light," they continued. I nodded again, because I have seen in this light as well. "You make light, too," they told me. "And that is enough. It is more than enough."
If this had happened several years ago, I might've been terrified, but I wasn't. If the trees were giving sage advice, I wanted to make the most of it, so I asked a question that has been weighing on us for a few years.
"What do you think we should do with our farm? What should we grow?" I asked. I waited, but if they had any advice, I could not understand it. I was starting to feel kind of excited.
"You're getting a little riled up here," the trees said. "You can be more like us. Stand tall and let the peace flow through you." I did my best, and again I felt the peace of the trees soothing and strengthening me. I decided it was probably time to go home and took a few steps in that direction, but then another thought occurred to me.
"Was it wrong to ask you the question about the farm?" I asked. "When should I be talking to you, and when should I be praying to God?"
"It is very important to praise God," the trees said. "Feel the ground and how solid it is. God is like that. Praise God as you touch the ground. Now look up at the sky and feel the power and joy that trembles there. Praise God like that. Now go home."
I thanked them, went home, and have not gone back there since that day. I will though. I'll go back.
My mind wandered, and I realized that for more than half of my adult life, I have been totally financially dependent on my husband. Although this seems like the best choice for our family, it weighs on me. I had been looking forward to developing our farm and bringing in some more money, but now it looks like that plan will be delayed for several years while I give most of my energy to mothering.
"You don't make money either," I told the trees offhandedly. Then something completely new happened. The trees answered me, quickly, in a way that I could understand.
"That's right," they said. "We don't make any money. But we make songs." I nodded. I hear the songs when I listen carefully. They vibrate up to the sky like chords played on an enormous guitar. "You make songs too," they said.
"We make light," they continued. I nodded again, because I have seen in this light as well. "You make light, too," they told me. "And that is enough. It is more than enough."
If this had happened several years ago, I might've been terrified, but I wasn't. If the trees were giving sage advice, I wanted to make the most of it, so I asked a question that has been weighing on us for a few years.
"What do you think we should do with our farm? What should we grow?" I asked. I waited, but if they had any advice, I could not understand it. I was starting to feel kind of excited.
"You're getting a little riled up here," the trees said. "You can be more like us. Stand tall and let the peace flow through you." I did my best, and again I felt the peace of the trees soothing and strengthening me. I decided it was probably time to go home and took a few steps in that direction, but then another thought occurred to me.
"Was it wrong to ask you the question about the farm?" I asked. "When should I be talking to you, and when should I be praying to God?"
"It is very important to praise God," the trees said. "Feel the ground and how solid it is. God is like that. Praise God as you touch the ground. Now look up at the sky and feel the power and joy that trembles there. Praise God like that. Now go home."
I thanked them, went home, and have not gone back there since that day. I will though. I'll go back.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Richly blessed
A couple months ago, I was marveling at how big my daughter has grown and how much we share in common. Because she's here, I often have a perceptive, artistic little lady in the house as a companion, and I am so grateful for that. I was remembering the day I found out I was pregnant with her and thinking that I had no idea what a gift I was being given. I decided that if I ever were pregnant again, I would at least have a clue that I was richly blessed.
Except right after that, I found out that I actually was pregnant, and I am not feeling richly blessed. Intellectually, I'd agree that I am, but emotionally, I'm not there yet. Mostly, I just feel exhausted.
Maybe this is part of being human. We often can't keep up with our blessings.
Except right after that, I found out that I actually was pregnant, and I am not feeling richly blessed. Intellectually, I'd agree that I am, but emotionally, I'm not there yet. Mostly, I just feel exhausted.
Maybe this is part of being human. We often can't keep up with our blessings.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Barbecued chicken wings
I wanted to take something delicious to the Sustainable Farming Association potluck Saturday. Once, because I forgot that a farm tour also included a potluck, I arrived with a bag of potato chips that I bought at a gas station. I am still trying to live down the shame of it. These potlucks are a showcase of delicious homegrown foods like organic sausage and expertly cooked heirloom beans and pickled beets and freshly baked bread.
We sold almost all of our chicken from the past season, but we still had a few packages of wings down in the freezer. I found a promising barbecue wing recipe that I could cook in the crockpot, so I rose early on Saturday morning and started to stir up an exciting concoction, even breaking out the cooking wine and the Worcestershire sauce. Right before I had to leave to teach my fitness class, I popped the top on the pot and predicted that it would be ready just in time.
When I returned a couple hours later, I opened the door of my home and inhaled deeply to gauge the progress of the wings. At exactly this point, my morning sickness kicked in. The smell of barbecue inhabited my home like an ogre, and I stood in the doorway aghast, wondering whether I should just go back outside. I knew that the wings probably smelled good to any normal person, but I'm no longer a normal person. I am hacking my way through the first trimester of pregnancy. A strong smell is almost enough to defeat me.
I made myself enter the house and act pleasant, but I was almost relieved to hear that my daughter had woken up with a terrible headache and was still in bed upstairs. I tore upstairs to see her, and as I expected, the smell was not strong up there. While I was allegedly comforting my daughter, I was really working up the nerve to go back downstairs.
Finally, I felt strong enough to face down my enemy. I made my way down the steps with a determined smile, and my husband suggested that I check on the wings because the potluck time would soon be upon us. He did not realize what he was asking me to do. Still, I felt that I was the best person for the job, so I approached the pot, breathing through my mouth to bypass my whole sense of smell. Then, as I stood before my slow cooker, a little bit of the odor sneaked past my defenses and set my mouth watering so much that I wondered if I should run to the bathroom.
The crisis passed. With trepidation, I opened the lid and dipped a spoon into the mass of saucy wings. They actually look pretty good. I set one on a plate and cut into it with a fork. Then I picked it up and bit it. It was fabulous. I dished about five more wings onto my plate and lit into them, thankful that I cooked up such a full pot. Once my stomach had some good food in it, the nausea evaporated, and the barbecue smell was no problem.
I stayed home from the Sustainable Farming Association meeting and potluck to take care of our sick daughter, but my husband reported that many people helped themselves to seconds from our crockpot. He thought my wings were the best thing there.
I think this is a good sign. Right now, with this pregnancy, I am stuck in a haze of nausea, uncertainty, and even dread. However, I believe that I will eventually make my way through to the meat of the situation, and when I do, I will tear into it with gusto.
We sold almost all of our chicken from the past season, but we still had a few packages of wings down in the freezer. I found a promising barbecue wing recipe that I could cook in the crockpot, so I rose early on Saturday morning and started to stir up an exciting concoction, even breaking out the cooking wine and the Worcestershire sauce. Right before I had to leave to teach my fitness class, I popped the top on the pot and predicted that it would be ready just in time.
When I returned a couple hours later, I opened the door of my home and inhaled deeply to gauge the progress of the wings. At exactly this point, my morning sickness kicked in. The smell of barbecue inhabited my home like an ogre, and I stood in the doorway aghast, wondering whether I should just go back outside. I knew that the wings probably smelled good to any normal person, but I'm no longer a normal person. I am hacking my way through the first trimester of pregnancy. A strong smell is almost enough to defeat me.
I made myself enter the house and act pleasant, but I was almost relieved to hear that my daughter had woken up with a terrible headache and was still in bed upstairs. I tore upstairs to see her, and as I expected, the smell was not strong up there. While I was allegedly comforting my daughter, I was really working up the nerve to go back downstairs.
Finally, I felt strong enough to face down my enemy. I made my way down the steps with a determined smile, and my husband suggested that I check on the wings because the potluck time would soon be upon us. He did not realize what he was asking me to do. Still, I felt that I was the best person for the job, so I approached the pot, breathing through my mouth to bypass my whole sense of smell. Then, as I stood before my slow cooker, a little bit of the odor sneaked past my defenses and set my mouth watering so much that I wondered if I should run to the bathroom.
The crisis passed. With trepidation, I opened the lid and dipped a spoon into the mass of saucy wings. They actually look pretty good. I set one on a plate and cut into it with a fork. Then I picked it up and bit it. It was fabulous. I dished about five more wings onto my plate and lit into them, thankful that I cooked up such a full pot. Once my stomach had some good food in it, the nausea evaporated, and the barbecue smell was no problem.
I stayed home from the Sustainable Farming Association meeting and potluck to take care of our sick daughter, but my husband reported that many people helped themselves to seconds from our crockpot. He thought my wings were the best thing there.
I think this is a good sign. Right now, with this pregnancy, I am stuck in a haze of nausea, uncertainty, and even dread. However, I believe that I will eventually make my way through to the meat of the situation, and when I do, I will tear into it with gusto.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Carrying a light
A couple weeks ago, while sitting in meeting for worship, I felt a white light touch down in my head, and then light up beneath my belly button. It was clearly a blessing, and that the time, I thought that it could be a sign that I am pregnant or alternately that our family of four is complete and whole.
The second interpretation was far more likely, but the first one was accurate. We are in shock.
This pregnancy is very new, and I am fully aware that one half to a one third of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. At this point, it seems premature to say that I am having a baby, but I want to share that I am carrying light within me. Whatever else happens in the next year, this experience of the light will always be real to me, and true.
Like in my other two pregnancies, I often feel as though I am caught between two worlds. Sometimes, I float just a little bit out of my body. Sometimes, I feel the company of something wonderful and warm and strong and female. Sometimes, I believe I see things the way the new light within me might see them, and my children, standing beside me in the kitchen, light up like lanterns. They are a source of comfort and guidance.
A message that I received a couple weeks ago is coming into clearer focus as well. The message was that I am not able to do anything very well except to love, and it seems that I have a new opportunity to love here. This opportunity comes at the exclusion of other opportunities. We had planned to sell our chickens at a farmer’s market, but we are not sure we should be planning to do that anymore. We had been talking about a five-year plan for the farm, and now the most basic agreements about that are in question. Mothering babies has been very hard on my health in the past, and this time around, should I get to that point, I will be older and even less healthy than I was with my other two children. I feel as though I cannot see any farther into the future than the next two months. In some way, we are grieving.
At this time, I feel as though my thoughts and emotions are shared by the new light within me, and so I'm doing my best to be reassuring. I picture myself like the Statue of Liberty – solid and bearing the torch of hope. The image feels a bit overwrought, but it keeps coming to mind, so I'm not going to argue with it. More helpful than that is the sensation I had last night of being accompanied by women and bathed from head to foot in light. I know I am nourished by something beyond myself.
(Hi Friends! I’m going to end this essay with a note. It feels so important for me to share this writing with you, and I know that it will be easier for me to keep writing what I really need to write if I can keep posting it on the blog. At the same time, I’m feeling really tender and confused! This was not planned. I really cannot picture myself with another baby, and trying to do so is painful at this point. So even if a person felt like offering congratulations, I’m not at a place where I can receive them well. Prayer would be great, though. I’m always up for some of that.)
The second interpretation was far more likely, but the first one was accurate. We are in shock.
This pregnancy is very new, and I am fully aware that one half to a one third of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. At this point, it seems premature to say that I am having a baby, but I want to share that I am carrying light within me. Whatever else happens in the next year, this experience of the light will always be real to me, and true.
Like in my other two pregnancies, I often feel as though I am caught between two worlds. Sometimes, I float just a little bit out of my body. Sometimes, I feel the company of something wonderful and warm and strong and female. Sometimes, I believe I see things the way the new light within me might see them, and my children, standing beside me in the kitchen, light up like lanterns. They are a source of comfort and guidance.
A message that I received a couple weeks ago is coming into clearer focus as well. The message was that I am not able to do anything very well except to love, and it seems that I have a new opportunity to love here. This opportunity comes at the exclusion of other opportunities. We had planned to sell our chickens at a farmer’s market, but we are not sure we should be planning to do that anymore. We had been talking about a five-year plan for the farm, and now the most basic agreements about that are in question. Mothering babies has been very hard on my health in the past, and this time around, should I get to that point, I will be older and even less healthy than I was with my other two children. I feel as though I cannot see any farther into the future than the next two months. In some way, we are grieving.
At this time, I feel as though my thoughts and emotions are shared by the new light within me, and so I'm doing my best to be reassuring. I picture myself like the Statue of Liberty – solid and bearing the torch of hope. The image feels a bit overwrought, but it keeps coming to mind, so I'm not going to argue with it. More helpful than that is the sensation I had last night of being accompanied by women and bathed from head to foot in light. I know I am nourished by something beyond myself.
(Hi Friends! I’m going to end this essay with a note. It feels so important for me to share this writing with you, and I know that it will be easier for me to keep writing what I really need to write if I can keep posting it on the blog. At the same time, I’m feeling really tender and confused! This was not planned. I really cannot picture myself with another baby, and trying to do so is painful at this point. So even if a person felt like offering congratulations, I’m not at a place where I can receive them well. Prayer would be great, though. I’m always up for some of that.)
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The daughter of actors
Ever since I was a child, I knew that the inner life was real. My folks, who were both actors, often practiced lines in the living room, talking animatedly to the air and nodding in response to unseen companions. I was drawn right into this. By the time I turned 6, it was often my to job read along with scripts and be sure my parents were saying their lines correctly. I also understood from a very early age that my family's financial security came from my father's ability to captivate people and move them. The crests and swells of other people's emotions were not ethereal, passing fancies. They paid for our home, our cars, and later on, they paid for my expensive college education.
Most performers can feel the emotions of a crowd, and they know clearly when an audience has offered up its heart, and when it bristles with impatience. Even skilled, experienced performers sometimes fail to move their audiences, but my parents could not afford to do that very often. They were not abstract artists. Their success depended on whether people could understand them and feel what they felt. This was perfectly clear to me from an early age.
My first language is still the charged sparks of awareness and emotion, the language in which my father earned his living. In addition to feeling the emotions of an audience, as most performers do, I feel smilar electric movements almost whenever I am able to quiet myself and listen. Mostly, I feel the movement of the Holy Spirit and I feel the almost magnetic awareness of plants, but I know that the world is teeming with more voices and motion.
Listening to those voices is my job. This became clear to me over and over again, even before my faith was deep enough to guide me. In partifular, I remember one night many years ago when I left an audition on a summer evening and found that I had been unaware of a thunderstorm on the horizon. The fragrant air was heavy, and the pink-tinged sky was swollen and streaked with lightning. Nothing was more important on that night than standing in awe of that storm, but I had missed much of it. I knew at that time that if I could not find a way to greater intimacy with the natural world, part of my heart would always be broken.
So I am trying to become a farmer, in part because I don't want to miss another thunderstorm. I am hoping that the disappointments, joys and exhaustion of trying to work with the land will give me intimacy with the fields and skies. It is a messy, often painful intimacy, but I am willing to let it change me, and I am willing to be wrong. I am also willing to be filled with wild, inexhaustible joy, and sometimes, already, I am.
It is becoming clear to me that the other part of my job is to write about my experiences of the Spirit. On a gut level, this feels dangerous. I know that when I write about listening to plants, then many people writes me off as nutty before they understand what I'm trying to say. A voice rises up from the place where my spine meets my skull and shrieks that this means starvation and abandonment! I hush that voice and roll my eyes before lamenting that nobody can benefit from writing that they cannot understand.
When I told these things to my gentle husband, he almost scolded me. “You are having a deep spiritual experience, and you are worried about whether you are being a good enough artist?” he asked, and then he pointed out that arts and ego can be entwined. I knew he was right. In the Bible, too, I found a subtle rebuke as I landed on the passage that said not everyone can understand spiritual messages. It doesn't mention anywhere in there that a message should be silenced because it might not be understood.
I am so grateful that I grew up as the daughter of actors, but I believe God has called me to other work, and so reluctantly, I am opening my tight grasp to let the wind blow away a little bit of what I thought was wisdom. Bit by bit, as I let go, I find myself less afraid.
Most performers can feel the emotions of a crowd, and they know clearly when an audience has offered up its heart, and when it bristles with impatience. Even skilled, experienced performers sometimes fail to move their audiences, but my parents could not afford to do that very often. They were not abstract artists. Their success depended on whether people could understand them and feel what they felt. This was perfectly clear to me from an early age.
My first language is still the charged sparks of awareness and emotion, the language in which my father earned his living. In addition to feeling the emotions of an audience, as most performers do, I feel smilar electric movements almost whenever I am able to quiet myself and listen. Mostly, I feel the movement of the Holy Spirit and I feel the almost magnetic awareness of plants, but I know that the world is teeming with more voices and motion.
Listening to those voices is my job. This became clear to me over and over again, even before my faith was deep enough to guide me. In partifular, I remember one night many years ago when I left an audition on a summer evening and found that I had been unaware of a thunderstorm on the horizon. The fragrant air was heavy, and the pink-tinged sky was swollen and streaked with lightning. Nothing was more important on that night than standing in awe of that storm, but I had missed much of it. I knew at that time that if I could not find a way to greater intimacy with the natural world, part of my heart would always be broken.
So I am trying to become a farmer, in part because I don't want to miss another thunderstorm. I am hoping that the disappointments, joys and exhaustion of trying to work with the land will give me intimacy with the fields and skies. It is a messy, often painful intimacy, but I am willing to let it change me, and I am willing to be wrong. I am also willing to be filled with wild, inexhaustible joy, and sometimes, already, I am.
It is becoming clear to me that the other part of my job is to write about my experiences of the Spirit. On a gut level, this feels dangerous. I know that when I write about listening to plants, then many people writes me off as nutty before they understand what I'm trying to say. A voice rises up from the place where my spine meets my skull and shrieks that this means starvation and abandonment! I hush that voice and roll my eyes before lamenting that nobody can benefit from writing that they cannot understand.
When I told these things to my gentle husband, he almost scolded me. “You are having a deep spiritual experience, and you are worried about whether you are being a good enough artist?” he asked, and then he pointed out that arts and ego can be entwined. I knew he was right. In the Bible, too, I found a subtle rebuke as I landed on the passage that said not everyone can understand spiritual messages. It doesn't mention anywhere in there that a message should be silenced because it might not be understood.
I am so grateful that I grew up as the daughter of actors, but I believe God has called me to other work, and so reluctantly, I am opening my tight grasp to let the wind blow away a little bit of what I thought was wisdom. Bit by bit, as I let go, I find myself less afraid.
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