A Sweet Returning

Today, of course, is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. We have just returned from church with its softly-lit and quiet nave, solemn recitations, and liturgy for the day we are bid to remember that we are dust and to dust we shall return. I still have the ash cross on my forehead and the words of our Old Testament reading ringing in my ears: return to the Lord. These are actually the same words that I have been consciously and unconsciously saying to myself for days now: return to the Lord.

It started a few nights ago as I was saying my rosary: this sense of returning just came over me. A sweet returning. A re-focusing of my attention, a drawing inward and towards. A return to myself and to God, both of whom I have been terribly distant from without even fully realizing it.

So Lent. This is my second time observing it, and my first time doing it with any real intentionality or expectation. This time I really want to prepare myself for the miracle of Easter and what it means for us. Lent is solemn, a time to take stock of one's life, to pare down, to pray and repent--but it is rooted in joy, the joy of the Christ's resurrection, the joy of our own resurrection.

This is a prayer I say a lot and the one that is foremost in my heart during this season of prayer, fasting, and preparation: Come, Lord Jesus. Draw us to yourself. Come, Lord Jesus. Draw all things to yourself.

A Summer Time Poem

I've just found this poem that I wrote in October and never looked at again (which is what happens to most of my poems). It's just a rough, unedited flow of thoughts, but it made me smile to remember its inspiration. (Charlotte, you should remember it well, too, since you shared in it.)It's one of my best Nashville memories.


Cheekwood Deer

In the summer woods,
Our eyes feasting on
The deep green, the
Glowing leaves,
The rotting logs,
The flitting birds,
The tiny purple flowers
Strewn at our feet
We stopped short, held our breath,
Motionless and staring:
Five young brown newly-antlered
Bearers of quiet
Watching us calmly
Only feet away

They didn't bother to get up;
They are used to the sight of us--
Gangly awkward things
But we are full of wonder:
Transfixed by
The supple bodies
The deep sweet eyes
The sculpted, ivory headdresses
The regal indifference

***

I pull myself away,
Reluctant, the light is
Dimming now--to the water
Garden to watch the day end;
I look back once,

But they have followed us to the water,
Where we sit watching the
Sunset melt into the floating leaves
We count, our breath catching
With each addition:
One, two, four, five!
Sweet, prancing, light bodies
Floating across the field,
Do their hooves touch the ground?
They are like memories

They pause one last moment--their silhouettes
Against the summer skyline
My heart a well of
Gratitude--

I am still dipping into
The sweetness

Better than Earthquakes

I said in my last blog that I was hoping for a jolt, perhaps in the metaphorical form of an earthquake or some other natural disaster. Something to wake me up, send me hurtling back into the present moment with a heart that's actually beating. I am still halfway hoping for this, but I suspect that my resurrection will not happen this away. There will be no angel, no rolling away of the stone, no cracks in the earth, no trumpets, lightning bolts, or Wizard of Oz tornadoes.

There will only be rich, quiet moments that come at unexpected times and sweet, unobtrusive blessings from unexpected places. Really, I don't need some grand sweeping glorious proclamation to wake up, to feel, to live. Today was a wonderful day for me, largely because I didn't have to go to work, but more than that because I did simple, necessary tasks and enjoyed them. I had my car's oil changed, did a little shopping, folded laundry, washed dishes. I found saucers that match our dinner plates perfectly--for $1 at Salvation Army, at that. I bought and filled a fruit basket. I watered the plants. I lost my wedding ring and found it in the washing machine.

It was a quiet, simple, happy day.

Three Shades of Boredom

Tonight I've been thinking about this Annie Dillard quote that has graced my blog profile for quite some time now: "How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives." And I am so unimpressed with how I've been spending my days, and, consequently, my life. Dragging myself out of bed in the morning to a job I don't love, yearning for lunchtime, then for quitting time, and dragging myself through traffic back to my little apartment where I collapse to watch the trivial sillinesses of television, maybe wash a few dishes, read a few pages of a book I'm too tired to fully appreciate, and then collapse into bed. Repeat on Tuesday.

Sitting in traffic on the way home today I thought, "Is this it? Seriously? Is this what we are all going to do with our lives for the rest of our lives?"

Like never ever before, I live for the weekend. For a chance to relax, to enjoy breakfast, to go for a walk, to do laundry, to feel like a human being again. The work week makes me feel like some exhausted robot, but on Saturday I become a little bird who is free to flit here and there, to sing a song, to love the flowers. Of course, Monday wastes no time in returning; it is as certain as Death.

Still, I can't blame my job or the traffic or the never-ending dishes piling up. These are the details, the frame work, but not the center. It is the center that matters--and my center is comatose. I remember times in life when I was so passionate--preaching the gospel, writing poetry, falling in love, learning--times I felt a fire in my bones, as Jeremiah said. These days I'm lucky to get a spark.

Perhaps the monotony of ordinary time--nothing to mourn, no special reason to celebrate--is the most dangerous. We are lulled to sleep by the cyclical, repetitive hum of living. We lose track; we forget; we set the cruise control and drift on through. God, for a jolt, a push, an earthquake.

Women's Lib, step one

All right, all you burgeoning feminists: this one's for you! I have, quite unexpectedly, found the answer to a woman's independence and self-sufficiency. I'm just surprised that Virginia Woolf didn't think of it. Before a high-paying salary, a sense of yourself, and freedom from the demands of patriarchal family life, you only need one thing...

I don't know what its real name is, but I call it the jar gripper opener thingy. You know, the round textured rubber kitchen wonder that enables you to open pickle jars like the Hulk. Yeah, that's what you need, girls. Never again will you need a man to remove the seemingly-cemented jelly jar lid or get that terrible cap off your beer. You can be a free woman. In fact, I opened a window with a broken latch with my own jar gripper opener thingy just the other day. It's a marvel, indeed.

One step at a time, ladies, one step at time. My wrench-wielding, oil-changing, furniture-moving mother would be so proud.