Thoughts from the Road

There's so much space.

Not in my car, mind you.  No, that is packed to the brim with as much of my life as I could fit in a VW Bug.  Just around.  There's space.   Space for imagination to roam.  Space for tall tales to grow.

Space.

I am not, and never will be, a desert dweller.  It's so dry - too dry.  But I have to admit that Disney certainly gets their landscapes right - I felt like I was driving through Cars.

The bugs on the windshield are a nice touch, don't you think?

210 miles into New Mexico every thought cleared from my mind except one:  What the actual f*** am I DOING???

Six miles later I thanked God and the sky for the torrent that expressed the sadness I couldn't.  On and on we drove, eastward, through all that space, cutting in and out of rainstorms as sudden and angry as my grief and fear.

I like the driving.  It's surprising, if I'm honest.  I wiggle and fidget and can hardly sit still at a desk, but driving hours on end seems to fit well.  I enjoy the sense of kinship I feel with other drivers, even the faceless long-haul truckers.  Especially the long-haul truckers.  I can identify them by their cabs, and I want to wave as we pass each other, following those unwritten rules of road etiquette.  Instead I just tap my thumb on my steering wheel and whisper, "You're doing great, girl," though whether I'm speaking to my car or myself I don't know.

I'm a terrible travel buddy, able to sit in silence for hours, listening to podcasts or music, or just caught up in my own thoughts.  What do I think about that conversation?  How different would that experience have been if I had acted on impulse instead of following whatever social script has been downloaded into my brain?  What will my job be like?  Do I already love my empty, little apartment?  (Yes.)  What are my characters doing?  When will I be able to let them soar again?  What will life be like in Nashville?

My mom doesn't mind the silence, either.  She says I'm the perfect travel companion.

I'm so glad she's here.

Every so often we pass a cross on the side of the road, and this is somehow a great comfort to me.  These odes to loved ones lost not only offer a reminder to be careful, but are evidence that we will never be forgotten.  After all, if a stranger moving her life from Santa Barbara to Nashville can see them and offer a silent prayer for the unknown, then how many others do the same when they pass?  In Orthodoxy we do not offer "Rest In Peace" as a wish for the dead, but rather, "Memory Eternal."  May his/her/their memory be eternal - everlasting - ongoing.  I feel as though, in the split second it takes to zoom past, the memory of these people is, indeed, eternal.

We are now over halfway to Nashville.  I haven't yet changed the clock in my car to central time.  I don't have it in me.  Not yet.  I am in between homes right now.  Once I'm there I'll make the change, but for now I'm appreciating that feeling of connection with my California tribe.

Amarillo smells like cow dung, and somehow this makes me sadder than I think I would be in another place.  The sad and tender part of me feels the smell as an insult, even though I normally wouldn't mind it.  Tomorrow we land in Little Rock, and I hope - oh, I hope! - it smells better than here.

 And then?  And then Nashville!  And then my sister, my brother-in-law, my four incredible and hugable nieces.  Friends and relatives and a church community, all already rooted, ready to make me feel like less of a transplant and more grounded.

And then the adventurous side of Steph will be bigger than the sad side.

Pray us there, friends.  Love to you all.

Artists, We Are Needed

Artists, we are needed.

I know. It's too hard to find it, to tap into that creative space and pull from it.  We are too vulnerable; with everything going on in the world and in our nation, it just hurts too much.  I know.  I feel it, too.  But we are needed.

It hit me today as I sat at my desk, humming the refrain of 'Hallelujah,' over and over again.  Cohen, I thought, was a poet.  He would have been able to make sense of this.  Because that's what poets do.  As Gwendolyn Brooks said, and my sister lives, "Poetry is life distilled."

I will (with all due respect) take this one step further: Art is life distilled.  It is finding the essential and extracting it.  You've felt it, right?  Something - word, song, photo, paint, animation - something hits you with a ferocity that leaves you shaking.  It makes you realize, as though for the first time, that true beauty is a jagged edge.  It tears you open and drives you to your knees, leaving you gasping and quivering, and somehow in need of more.  You are changed.  Tender, open.  Broken.

So we are driven to our craft, to our art.  We find it deep within us and we pull it out.  It may be loud, it may be soft.  It could be for the world to see, or the solace you find in your quiet garden.  But you create.  You recognize the need.

Artists, we are needed.

We need to show up and let the light shine through our brokenness.  Because that is our super power, our secret weapon: we do not cover up the hurt.  We use it.  We harness it.  We face it and direct it.  We are broken open time and time again, and it lets us see the world with a vision others refuse to face.

We breathe in hurt and breathe out love.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Artists, we are needed.

We are needed to take a step forward, even though the air is heavy and the bog hinders our progress.  One step, and then another, and then another - until the earth firms beneath our feet just enough for us to rest, for only a moment, before moving again.

I have been suspended this week, held in the air, frozen, unable to move as I looked all around me.  Looking through the words I have seen hurt.  Hurt all over.  I see it and I feel it.  It presses on my shoulders, my chest, my back.  Down, down, down.

I turned to look for the light, and saw in surprise that it shone through me, through my broken parts.  So I took a deep breath, and then another, and then I lifted my head.

I cannot promise it will all be okay.  I don't that it will; I am not a Seer.  I can look at the past and see what we've survived, and I can glean hope from that.  But empty assurances are not helpful, especially to those who feel fear and hurt and despair directly in their lives.  So I won't offer them.

Instead, I promise this: I will watch, and see what is going on around me.  I will listen and hear what those who are afraid and hurting have to say.  I will make certain my path is safe for any who come across it.  I will be the vessel for the Speaker: Come to me, He says, and I will give you rest.   The sun will rise and set, and I will let it shine through me.  The earth will turn on its axis, and I will mirror the dance.  The wind will arrive, sometimes drifting, sometimes whipping, and I will let it blow through me, sweeping away the darkness.

Artists, we are needed.

But what if - you ask - what if I don't create art?

I have a secret for you.  Come close, and listen.

Artists, I believe, are nothing more or less than those of us who still remember we are all human.  We live our art in an infinite number of ways: gardening, cooking, writing, painting, designing, dancing, animating, singing, composing, speaking, running, lifting...the list goes on and on.  The only thing that makes us artists is the recognition that we share a nature.  We see that the lines of connection have been covered, they have been twisted and stretched and even torn, but they have not broken.  We are still all connected; we belong to each other.

We see this and we live this.

Artists.  We are needed.

I Heard the Bells

Oh, what a day.

Fear, excitement, panic, hope, dread...the list goes on and on and on.  Sitting at my computer (at work...shhh) I felt it all rise up within me.  I became suddenly overwhelmed.  How on earth will we go on after this election day?  No one can deny that this campaign process has incited and ignited passion within people.  And not just good passion.  No.  Anger...hatred...vitriol...

I wondered how our nation could move on after all this.  Surely we are more divided than ever before.

Except -

As I let my mind spiral downward a song came on my Dave Barnes (Holiday) Pandora station.  (Yes.  Holiday.  Judge not.)  As I listened I felt tears come to my eyes and peace wash over me.  The carol was a song based on a poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow on Christmas Day, 1863.

Folks, 1863 was the middle of the American Civil War.  A time when our nation was more divided than ever before, a time in which it seemed we could only splinter apart.  Longfellow, the widowed father of six children, had recently learned his oldest child had been severely injured in the war.  So he did what the artists and dreamers do: He put his pain and hope on paper.

I think it applies now, just as surely as then.

Here is his poem (emphasis mine):

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

My Quilt Square

I visited my grandma today.

It was a spur of the moment decision; I happened to be in the neighborhood and had a few extra minutes, so I stopped by.  Because it was a last minute thing I didn't follow my normal routine of visiting her.  Usually I stop by Starbucks and pick up some coffee - decaf, because it's always so late in the day.  But today, sadly sans coffee, I followed the now familiar turns and lowered the volume of my radio out of respect for anyone else who happened to be around.  I parked in my usual spot and walked the short distance, wondering, as always, why I even bothered to lock my car. After all, it's not as though my little, red Bug would be out of my sight.

And then, with a quick glance to Grandma's neighbors, I lowered myself to the ground.  "Sorry I don't have any coffee for you," I said, and I touched a hand to her headstone.

This is usually the point when I say (out loud, because I think she would get a kick out of it), "Pour one out for my homegirl," and tip the coffee cup upside down.  We share that coffee as I talk about what's going on in my life.  I alternate between taking sips and pouring some beside her name, and I always feel a gentle swell of pleasure in the knowledge that my love of coffee is something that came from her and Grandpa.  It is not groundbreaking or earth shattering.  It will never save a life or change the world, but it is a part of the legacy I have inherited from her.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.  Legacy.  I'll spare you the sordid details, but "legacy" has been something of a hot topic in some recent drama.  Truthfully, "drama" doesn't at all capture the reality of the pain caused, but that's not currently my story to tell.

Legacy, though, that is mine, though I share it with many.  Legacy is like a blanket - a quilt - which lays over many, offering warmth and comfort, and unique in each individual space.  I've been inspecting my quilt square, trying to see clearly which pieces of each of my grandparents have made it into my little portion.

Mama Bear from The Berenstain Bears and Mama's New Job.  LOVE those quilts!

So today I sat at my grandma's graveside and I thought.

I thought about the moment my grandpa mentioned Grandma's great love of Christmas, when my brother leaned over to me and whispered, "That's where we get it."

I thought about jumping excitedly onto the couch when Granddaddy was GOING TO TELL HIS MICKEY MOUSE STORIES!!!!  And then laughing years later when kids I babysat asked me to please tell a Mickey Mouse story? 

I thought about Mimi and her sense of humor - the moment during our Easter service when she just could. not. handle. the way someone was chanting.  She and I covered our mouths with our hands and laughed and laughed and laughed as silently as possible.  Even now I get a flash of that memory when I notice something ridiculous.

I thought about Grandpa's great love of family, the way you can tell he is soaking up the chaos around him when we're all together, and I remembered moments at family events when I just looked around, in awe of and grateful for all these crazy people around me.

Webster's dictionary describes "legacy" in the following way:

I am going to ignore the first definition, because my family has taught me that while money is nice and helpful and certainly not evil, it is by no means the most important thing in life.  So let's move on to the second definition:

Something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

This.  Yes.

This resonates with me.  Because when I think of my legacy, I don't think of property or money - unless we're joking about how our inheritance was used to buy Beanie Babies.  

Wait!  This is actually my legacy! ;)

No.  Money, properties, or things are not a part of the quilt laid over me.  My legacy is a strong sense of justice, loyalty, and family.  It is a goofy and silly sense of humor, and a sardonic delight in the ridiculous.  It is standing in front of people and feeling comfortable speaking to them.  It is yelling at other drivers.  It is whistling - a lot.  It is a tendency to assume that I know exactly what's best, even when I have no idea what's actually going on.  It is caring about my appearance.  It is wanting to know who is in church this morning - not to judge...just to know.   It is taking everything so hard.  It is being incredibly self-critical.  It is my storytelling.  It is the sound of my exhale when dismissing something.  It is the shape of my mouth and the slope of my nose.  It is the sound of my laugh.

My quilt square is not perfect, but it keeps me warm.  

And I love it dearly.

Photo credit: Aunt Judy Braun

Small Enough

My heart is heavy.

 

Truly, I look around, and it seems that everywhere I turn I see pain.  Sorrow.  Hurt.  Anger.  Grief.  Lots and lots of grief.

 

It's been like this for a while, too.  I was anxious for summer to end this year, which is unusual for me.  But for some reason I told myself that if summer would just be done, all the heaviness and sadness would be done, too.

 

I'm tempted to say that it seems senseless, even though I have seen God moving through this time.  He is moving slowly, quietly, more like a mist than a strong force.  But, being human and oh-so-doubtful, I still find myself demanding answers of Him.  Why? I ask (not very nicely, either).  Why are people we love being taken from us?  Why can't my brother find a job?  Why are the people I love hurting so much?  Why did You give joy and anticipation only to take it away?  Why the loneliness?  Why the constant struggle just to make ends meet?  And cancer.  What the heck?  Cancer.  Cancer.  Cancer.  Why?  Why?  Why? 

 

I thought to myself today that I was just ready for something joyful.  And then immediately I felt ashamed of myself.  I needed to quiet myself, and to pay attention to the mist I am seeing moving, even through the sorrow.  But tonight I'm not sure I'm there.  Tonight I am not sure I can put the positive spin on it.  Tonight I want to cry out, "my God, my God!  Why have You forsaken us?" 

 

Tonight, when then only prayer that comes to mind is Lord, have mercy, I find - unsurprisingly - that a song expresses it so much better than I can.  Another night I will be able to be positive again.  I know I will.  But tonight, in this time when I look around and see so many people hurting, I pray that our great God, Who is clothed with strength and majesty, will be small enough that we can feel Him. 

 

 

Remembering

There is a lot of chaos in my environment right now.  I am sitting in a Starbucks - no surprise there, really - with my headphones in.  Despite the gentle Christmas music I am listening to from my own computer I can hear the piped in music of the coffee shop, as well as the strangely loud conversations of the people around me and the yelling of the barristas to each other. 

Christmas music.  Why Christmas music? 

Aside from the fact that I love Christmas music and listen to it whenever the feeling strikes me, I need Christmas today because I need comfort.  I can't just let the tenth anniversary of September 11 pass by without attempting to make sense of my thoughts.  And my thoughts, in a personal mimicry of the environment around me, are filled with chaos. 

My memories of this time ten years ago are disjointed and filled with emotion.  Grabbing a piece of cheese toast only to be surprised by the phone ringing, followed by the instant shock and fear when I heard my mom say, "WHAT?" sharply, before turning to us and saying, "Dad says to turn on the news.  Right now."

I remember running into the living room and turning on the news, and staring in shock and disbelief at the image of a tower burning and not quite understanding what happened.  Then, as news commentators are discussing the impossibility of the event watching in utter horror as the second plane hit the second tower.

I remember the horror growing as I watched the towers fall - collapse - implode - one after the other.  After being shuffled out the door because, well, we had school that day, I remember the neighbor coming outside and saying, "It's the start of World War 3," and wondering, Is he right? 

I remember the news being on in every class - except Spanish - and the strange, shell-shocked atmosphere of the school, despite being thousands of miles away.  I remember coming home, seeing on TV the devastation that was still, somehow, a shock. 

There are images that have never left; I think about them almost daily:

The people inside the towers who were waving shirts outside the windows, letting rescuers know they were still inside.  As if to say, "Don't forget about us!  We're still stuck!" 

The people who chose to jump, rather than die in the collapse.

The image of the first responders running inside, and then mere moments later being crushed.

The sight of the doctors and nurses who set up the triage stations.

The dust covered people stumbling through the rubble, dazed and shocked.

The Friday after the attacks I remember standing at our high school football game, where the teams ran onto the field together, led by the DP team captain carrying the American flag, and lining up together on the sideline for a moment of silence.  I had never before, or have never since, been in a crowd so large that was able to be so silent.  Even the children were quiet, as if they, too, felt and understood the heaviness of the time.  And during the moment I looked down at the football players, scrambled with each other, creating an accidental red, white, and blue ribbon with their jerseys. 

There are images in my mind that are disturbing.  They make me uncomfortable, sad, angry.  There are some people that say we should just move on.  We shouldn't take time each day to run through our memories.  We need to just go back to normal.  At the risk of sounding harsh, or cruel, I have one thing to say in response:

What an idiotic thing to say.

We can't pretend it never happened - it did.  We can't go back to normal - normal was a time of ignorance, sleepiness, and, going deeper, "normal" killed its Creator.  And if we pretend it never happened, if we take the disturbing images out of our sight, we do a serious disservice to those who died that day ten years ago. 

The people in the towers and surrounding buildings, people who were rushing in because they were running late for work, going to meetings, sitting at desks, emailing, calling...People living their lives just like you and me who left behind grieving family and friends.  We can't pretend they didn't die.  We need to give them the respect, and acknowledgement.

The first responders, those who ran in while everyone else ran out.  Wow.  We need to honor them.  They gave their lives in an act of true love.  Not "love" the noun, "love" the verb.  Not "love" the feeling, but "love" the choice.  No one would blame these men and women for running away.  No one would judge them for not going into a building that would collapse any instant.  But there were people inside who needed saving, and so they went in.  When we try to ignore the fact that this happened we dishonor these brave men and women. 

We can't forget.  We can't push it away. 

Now I believe God was there with the people as they died.  Maybe it's just a way of giving myself some comfort and peace of mind, but I firmly believe the final moment for these people between life and death was, while horrible and unimaginable, also hopeful - God was there with them. 

This doesn't go nearly deep enough.  I could write all day and still not find a way to express everything that I felt then, ten years ago, and that I feel today.  I can't seem to find the right words to express the importance of remembering, and honoring, our fallen brethren and heroes. 

And so, in honor of those who climbed and climbed, only to be brought down, I offer this quote from the poem, "The Final Inspection," a poem about a police officer standing before God.

Step forward now, Officer, you've borne your burdens well.
Come walk a beat on Heaven's Streets. You've done your time in Hell

May God have mercy on the souls of those lost that day, and may their memories truly be eternal.

Celebrating Life

Today I had the opportunity to celebrate the life of a wonderful man. 

I looked around the park in awe, marveling at my god-brother's talent in making a space simultaneously elegant and welcoming.  I offered my help in setting up, and had to chuckle at how dismal my party-arranging skills are compared to his (we all have our talents, don't we?). 

I stood, mesmerized by the slide show - 54 minutes long - that made me smile, cry, and laugh.  I got butterflies in my stomach when a song that my god-brother and best friend and I sang came on, followed by satisfaction that I was able to do something to help, no matter how small.

I looked around, unsurprised, as a seemingly endless stream of people came in.  So many people were touched by this one life.  So many people wanted to pay their respects.

I felt happiness for my cousins and their growing catering business.  The food was delicious and I was proud of my family and their ability to build their business from the ground up. 

I felt joy at seeing my younger brother laughing with his friends.  It has been years since they were all together, and anyone could see they were practically revelling in each others' presences.  Later Mary and I would spend time with them all, joking and laughing and enjoying the day.

It was bittersweet when I greeted the family, asking them how they were doing and knowing that whatever answer they gave would be only a half-truth.  Knowing that no matter how "fine" they said they were it was too soon to be completely true.  Wondering if it would ever be true again. 

I felt extreme gratitude that my dad is still with us.  He is such an anchor and rock in my life, and in so many others.  Many heartfelt prayers of thanksgiving have been sent heavenward in the past month. 

And I felt love and pride mingled with sadness as a 17-year-old stood in front of the group and spoke about his dad.  I stood in awe as I realized that although I have seen him, and loved him, as the 4-year-old he was when I met him, this 17-year-old is now a man: a man I am proud to call my friend.  I cried as he reached out with only a few words and touched lives just as his father did.  And I listened as he hoped everyone present would take something away with them. 

I did take something...I took a firm desire to live my life to touch others.  I took with me a hope to be a vessel of God, to shine love to people, the same way this man shined love.  I took a need to celebrate life, mine and others, and to give thanks for every part - the beautiful, the painful, the bizarre, the sorrowful, the joyful. 

Memory Eternal, Bobby.  You are missed, and very dearly loved.

Psalm 30:5