Mr: Honey, your playing was beautiful. I was reminded as to why I married you.
Mrs: You need reminders, huh?
Mrs: Gotta blog that.
Boy: Blog it! Blog it! Blog it!
Apr 11, 2015
Mr: Honey, your playing was beautiful. I was reminded as to why I married you.
Mrs: You need reminders, huh?
Mrs: Gotta blog that.
Boy: Blog it! Blog it! Blog it!
Apr 11, 2015
Here’s a seven-and-a-half year old who
memorized the first seven verses of John 1
in Latin and English in the homeschooling
with Classical Conversations, a global
home education program based on the
ancient Classical model of learning. I set each
text to song and he downed them like dessert.
T adored the Latin and the third day or so said,
“I heard it last night [in bed]. It was beautiful
in my head and I loved it. It’s one of the most
beautiful songs ever, Mom.” The words
ingrained nice and deep; they’ve become a part
of him. Now I just have to get going with the
In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat
apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum. Hoc
erat in principio apud Deum. Omnia per
ipsum facta sunt: et sine ipso factum est
nihil, quod factum est. In ipso vita erat,
et vita erat lux hominum: et lux in tenebris
lucet, et tenebrae eam non
comprehenderunt. Fuit homo missus a
Deo, cui nomen erat Joannes. Hic venit in
testimonium ut testimonium perhiberet de
lumine, ut omnes crederent per illum.
In the beginning was the Word, and the
Word was with God, and the Word was
God. He was with God in the beginning.
Through him all things were made;
without him nothing was made that has
been made. In him was life, and that life
was the light of all mankind. The light
shines in the darkness, and the darkness
has not overcome it. There was a man
sent from God whose name was John.
He came as a witness to testify concerning
that light, so that through him all might
It took me over a quarter of a century to realize beauty is not something frivolous. We need beauty in our life. The truth still takes my breath away. With no particular aesthetic gift or impulse, I was for much of my life satisfied if my purchases were functional. They didn’t have to be pretty. And so neither did I, because my brain got me around. It was my mind, not my appearance, that helped me achieve in school and life and build relationships. I now look with patience upon the black-and-white assertions we draw in youth.
In Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert borrows from The Italians by Luigi Barzini to tease out “why the Italians have produced the greatest artistic, political and scientific minds of the ages, but have still never become a major world power. [His answers] have to do with a sad Italian history of corruption…and dominators…which has generally led Italians to draw the seemingly accurate conclusion that nobody and nothing in this world can be trusted. Because the world is so corrupted…one should trust only what one can experience with one’s own senses. This is why Italians will tolerate hideously incompetent generals, presidents, tyrants, professors, bureaucrats, journalists and captains of industry, but will never tolerate incompetent opera singers, conductors, ballerinas…actors, cooks, tailors…In a world of disorder and disaster and fraud, sometimes only beauty can be trusted. Only artistic excellence is incorruptible. And sometimes the meal is the only currency that is real. To devote yourself to the creation and enjoyment of beauty, then, can be a serious business – not always necessarily a means of escaping reality, but sometimes a means of holding on to the real when everything else is flaking away into rhetoric and plot.”
She goes on to describe how deep in the ruins of her marriage, she began to mend her soul by reading aloud Italian words out of a dictionary. I can relate. After my body broke down from stress and overwork in my 20s, I noticed flowers for the first time. I had never seen them grace the cities I lived in. Too busy with things that mattered like studies and work, I had never looked. But in my frailty, I was ravished by their beauty, the force of their color. My spirit had fractured open, worn and thirsty for something beyond the dictates of duty. Eager for a song, not just the beat of the clock I raced. I didn’t understand why I took so hungrily to the flowers I had by practice dismissed. It took me years to realize that beauty is healing. And so the lyrical, sexy Italian sounds out of her mouth brought Gilbert healing joy. She says “the appreciation of pleasure can be an anchor of one’s humanity…You were given life; it is your duty…to find something beautiful within life, no matter how slight.”
I would take it a step further. Beauty is the very fabric of our world. Yes, we’ve screwed things up with crime, war, destruction, and the abuse of our natural resources. But beauty dances in the pageantry of the sunset and of the cosmos (who said Jupiter had to be so beautiful??), in the languages of men. Some days the California sky is so magnificent, the clouds coiffed with a panache which in a painting would look overdone, too perfect. Beauty wasn’t an artful afterthought to this world. She obligated herself upon it. Beauty isn’t something to find. She is the substance of this earth and wants to show her imprint in our life.
How does this belated dawning translate in my life? While I remain impressed with women who match head to toe, my regard for them is largely what I hold for curious lab specimens. I was taken by my mother-in-law’s response when I thanked her for a recent gift card saying I’ll get something to look pretty in for her son. “Get something nice to be pretty for yourself. Life is short. Someday, you will realize that you don’t have much time left over to enjoy what you have now.” I was reminded that while vanity is one thing, self-respect is another and taking care with my appearance is good for the soul. The series on beauty that’s around the corner will take us through the body, spirit, femininity, relationships, love, memory, pain, suffering, art. Please welcome the guests who have worked hard over their stories and are still bleeding from the edits because beauty is worth it.
Holisticpedia: [Blog-eye-tis] Blog withdrawal refers to a group of symptoms that may trigger from prolonged hiatus of posting after chronic sustained blogging. There is no way to predict how an individual will respond in the abstinence. If you plan to break for a month after blogging drunkenly for a minimum of a year, you should consult a health care practitioner before going cold turkey or locate a support group near you.
Brain has yet to process the trying spell ahead. It is still feeding off the sugar of the comments from the last post and is feeling okay enough.
Brain knows something is up. Headache and mild agitation.
Irritability coupled with mood swings, anxiety, paleness, increased appetite and caloric intake. Seeks comfort food, craves alcohol.
The shakes, sweating, failing blood pressure, chest pain. Bad dreams (that you have forgotten your WordPress password and are calling out to your readers, the screen impermeable against silent shouts).
Days 29 – Day You’re Kidding Me.
When a sentence was not halfway out of my mouth this particular morning, Mr. Wayfarer’s phone beeped. As I continued talking, I saw I’d been trumped by Text Almighty and the dialogue had turned into a soliloquy. I got mad at the ready disregard for my words, at Husband’s adulterous adoration of his phone.
I came back to the grievance later and huffed, “Actually, I should just text you from the next room, go to the office and text the conversation. You’d listen then.” He started laughing, helpless against the truth. He added, “Text See me in the office. I’d come and you’d have my full attention.”
He wasn’t the only one laughing.
He’d have to come without the phone, though.
this epicurean sea of wildflowers and opus
white blossoms stirs beneath the rising day
she spills seminal secrets as the bees and the
winds drive pollen grains and promise past
the velvet parting into stigma and style
with the marksmanship of knowing.
this field, voluminous womb, awash with prose
drinks the sun that climaxes overhead. a rain
of white sapphire upon silken spires that
indemnifies last night’s shower,
and the dandelion memories too much
for me in the wind perish in a panoply of filaments
but here i lie on my earthen bed pregnant
with poetry, the story under stories of the grass,
translating the anatomy of nature’s mystery and
indulge myself upon this, my field of words.
If you haven’t figured out these tricks by now, there might still be time to save your relationship. Might. So here we go. Those few days out of the month:
1. Keep a spare pair of boxing gloves on hand for defensive blocks. Think of it as a workout. Build muscle and coordination. How nice, you don’t even have to go to the gym. Hey, give it ten years and you’ll be looking sharp and buff. You should thank her.
2. Accept the fact that you are stupid and anyone who goes near her is stupid. She has a soft spot for the kids but keep kickable pets away.
3. Try extra hard to pretend you’re listening. You just might get away with it if you look up when those lips start moving faster than you can handle.
4. Here’s your chance. Fix something, anything. The shingles on the roof, camera tripod, all the stuff you love tinkering with when you’re not napping. Break it first behind her back if you have to – but be sure you can FIX it!
5. Don’t forget the trash. Gosh, don’t forget the trash.
6. You know the Yes, Dear that you haven’t been practicing? Well, good news. The premarital advisers were wrong. You don’t have to say it all the time. Statistics prove the abracadabra works when used just two days a month. Pick your hardest days. Takes less than two seconds – that’s not even four in a painful week. Wow, a year’s worth of peace in 48 seconds. Tell me of a cheaper, faster kind of relationship therapy out there.
7. Take her out. A movie will keep her quiet and entertained. She may even laugh. But if the trip alone with her in the car scares you too much…
8. What does she like? Play her favorite songs. Bring home flowers. How could you forget she’s craving sweets? Run her a hot bath, get her out of your hair for half an hour.
9. Remember why you wanted to marry her. The way she looked the day you met. (Her body.) Her mind, (her body,) her spirituality (her body). In fact, make that a wedding photo on your screensaver or phone. Take saving advantage of your visual facility and stare at the picture until you hypnotize yourself into believing that person’s still in there. Somewhere. People have been using guided imagery to conquer phobias and lose weight for centuries. You can do it, rescue your beloved from the premenstrual invasion of the Body Snatcher.
10. If all else is lost, cry. Since you can’t beat her, join her. No need to tell her you’re weeping over the death of your dreams. Let her be impressed with how deep and sympathetic you can be and experience together a new level of rapturous communion that’ll usher in a fresh love. Not a big deal you’ll have to do it all over again in a month. You’ll feel so much better.
And Happy 10th Anniversary to the Holistic Couple.
Holistic Love Doctor, M.LoveEd., Ph.D., HMFT, LoveL.Ac., L.HChVoodoo
Make me cry
Make me wonder
Give me chills, my
Make me bellyache
and slap my lap, not
me you’re the real deal.
Mix me a drink
Hold the sugar. I have
expensive taste, please –
Teach me something high
or low, so much I don’t know
We don’t have to be in sync
but do make me think.
Quick! Erase the cliché
Wayfarer’s on her way
Oh mercy: rain…heaven’s tears?
She’s had it up to her ears.
Easy on the adverbs
Her sensibilities disturb
Impress or bless, but don’t bore her
when she’s willing to concur and confer.
But no one’s responding, you lament
Well, compel HW to comment.
Learn from her, this poem her worst yet
but see here the footprints of those who tread.
There is hope for all. Turn
around, if you’ve hit a wall.
If you knew how busy she is, this
challenge you wouldn’t dismiss.
Don’t post just to post. Wait
’til you can give your utmost.
Oh, don’t ring hollow
if you want her follow.
You know the carol The Twelve Days of Christmas?
On the third day of Christmas
My true love gave to me:
three French hens
two turtle doves and
a partridge in a pear tree.
So I got in with some friends a few years ago where we counted down the 12 days to Christmas with a gift a day for our husbands. Like the song goes, we used the number of the day we were on for our theme. Day 1, maybe a note “You’re the only one for me” taped to a Hershey’s Kiss. Day 2, “We make a great pair” tied to a pear with his lunch. Day 3, a three-pack of tic-tacs or underwear.
Well, I realized it was already Day 4 and I hadn’t given him the coupon.
“Shoot! If only I’d remembered on Day 1. I would’ve gotten away with only one.”
So the Mister got a whoppin’ four, which in keeping with the number theme, would be good ’til April 4.
I never saw the man so happy. He danced around and promptly hopped to the computer where he scanned the coupon to Facebook. There were moments later that day when he wished he had them in the car to redeem.
Ladies, the coupon takes minutes and costs nothing but the bit of blood you get biting your tongue.
I don’t like having more than one of anything. Feels wasteful. I mean, one hairbrush will do. My wedding dress and cake had no decorations, no ribbon or flower. Nothing. In my day-to-day, I map out the most efficient route for errands. Lose time and you’ve lost what’s irretrievable. I like to keep on the spare side of things.
It hit me that the way I relate to money and time is how I write. I aim to work each word full tilt. I love having guest writers see they can toss two, three hundred words to find the heart of their story. Of the 42 who have come through these doors, virtually all have sworn they have “cut to the bone” and just can’t reach the word limit I set. I plunge my knife, head straight for the marrow, send them the bloody remains. And yes, I laugh like Cruella De Vil. My toughest critic, I stripped a short February post of a dozen words last night. And nodded in approval. Cleaner, tighter. I do my best to preserve the unique voice of every contributor, which is why we have had 42 different voices in the repertoire. No one has to or should sound like me. Goodness, not with the literary greats to emulate. But I believe we can apply principles of efficiency no matter what our style. Because we writers and poets love our words so much, we tend to err on the side of overstating and in our earnestness, try too hard. We all know less is more but my guests still scrounge for the anesthesia when they see the knife. Which reminds me. I need to wipe that blade.
Comments closed on this one.
HW, in cahoots with the Mafia
Elmhurst was really a town back then, not too fond of change though the quiet was punctuated by noise you’d expect of a New York city. Depending on who your neighbors were, you got the occasional Mariachi outside your window or the Mexican bass throbbing under your feet. Elmhurst housed people in boxes, brick apartment buildings that stood like giant file cabinets. Our life filed under 1D, then 5H, before we settled into the roomier one-bedroom 3F. To get from one apartment to the next, you got in another box, the elevator. The door opened to hit you with the smell of the last occupants. Cigarette, curry, musky cologne. As a little girl I was afraid of the thin black space I’d jump over to step in. I imagined somehow falling into the scary unknown.
It was a recurring dream I had as a kid. I pressed three in the elevator and hit the fifth floor, then watched helplessly as the numbers lit their way down. Past three. The door opened, but I didn’t live on first. I landed everywhere but the place I wanted to get to.
The funny thing is my house three decades later on the other side of the country is ostentatiously rectangular. Nothing to complain about with all the space I ever hoped for. But I wonder if the architecture of my childhood is why I’ve fancied homes with circular form and spiral stairs. Perhaps in such a house I would stop living the unwelcome dream. I long for progress in certain areas of my life. How I hate the offhand, “How are you?” because I’m always struggling, eyeing the place I can’t reach. I have been many things: tired, discouraged, overwhelmed, thankful, disappointed, hopeful. But never unmotivated in the blogging, never uninspired in the writing; it’s just these four walls of time. Writing is a montage of all the arts. It is painting, sculpting, dancing, singing, photographing, weaving – with words, all at once. I fill the empty draft page, my canvas of possibility. Press publish and I watch the numbers climb. I’m not deposited in some dreamer’s purgatory. Ceiling defers to sun and clouds heavy with promise, such air as I’d never tasted. This sky is the floor I could finally reach.
When she was young, she lived on her last dollar and books and dreams.
She worked as though her life depended on it.
She watched and smiled, said yes I’ll marry you.
She died and birthed her boy.
She played her heart on that piano and her husband heard
and loved her again.
She questioned, ate disbelief. She wept.
She prayed and prayed. She received.
She slow danced with ideas
She was frail, a leaf the wind turned over, and
a rock you couldn’t move in her convictions.
She sang blues and hymns and dreams.
She struggled to get off ground some days, and
wrote her way into the clouds, drank their rain.
She asked God for one more day because she erred, wounded, and grieved.
She loved deeply. She didn’t love enough.
She hoped her life was enough.
Comments all yours if you’d like to write your own here.
Fear dictates a lot of what we do, say, and don’t. Over the years, my husband and I have peeled back the face of harsh words, avoidance, and everything in between to lay bare this tyrant in the heart. The things I want from him will often lead back to my fear of finding myself out in the cold with hat in hand. In those moments I’m the little girl her parents let down, even while I now understand that they had done their best. Holistic Husband will hesitate to share with me what he really thinks, afraid of rejection. I am short with my boy for shedding clothes outside because I am afraid he will get sick. Not a 100 pounds, I could not relate to anyone with eating disorders. Until a few years ago when I showed myself I could overeat. I knew better. I was the health and nutrition consultant among moms, with over a decade of study under her belt. The worst thing you can do with your food is do too much of it. I realized something wild. Though my husband spared no expensive to meet our needs, the compulsive eating started from fear of going hungry.
There are many things we hold back from trying, scared to fail. We worry about what others will think and end up spouting dumb words or holding back when we should speak up. The wind of peer pressure blows on our kids everyday, right through the morning window when they decide what to wear before pushing them toward and away from other kids.
How would these things look different in your life, if you were not afraid?
Your relationship with your sweetheart
How you parent
The people you tend to befriend
The relational boundaries you draw
How passive or aggressive you are in conflict
How often you say no
How and why you study
What you would say in a job interview
Where you work
How you work, the hours you put in
Your relationship with your self, in exercise or ways you nurture your body and spirit
How and what you write
What you buy
The goals you set
Add your own.
Feel free to think before getting back to me.
Night has pressed her hand to your eyes. Deep in stories written by moonlight, you
fly dragons over magic rivers and lead clone armies through the red dust of Mars.
I follow your brows, lashes, these long limbs – they are the lines of your biography.
Hands that build Lego tales and castles, draw warbirds, roll out sixteenth triplets;
these hands feel older now. Who will they lead? Who will they hold? I’m watching you
outgrow this bed but you refuse to outgrow the smell of your mother’s skin. You bury
your face in my shirt and come up sated, remembering the milk and my heartbeat.
When you are my heart.
There’s so much you want to know and I don’t have the answers, things for astronomers
and professors to tell. And you didn’t know I kissed you tonight and a thousand times
past and will kiss you through all my tomorrows. But when I’m outnumbered by time,
you will always have this sky, a hospitable spread of stars that are yours for the asking –
even when you wake.
I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth.
I am ashamed to claim faith in Jesus Christ, unworthy as I am
to bear that name and call myself a Christian. For my sake he was
crucified under Pontius Pilate, suffered death and was buried.
I love the order and witness of the Christian faith;
the unassuming birth, disarming life, unjustifiable death,
and the deserted tomb that answer prophecy of Scripture.
A burning stick snatched from the fire, I believe I am more sinful
than I could imagine and more loved than I dare hope.*
Yet I worship at the altar of Self, and often insist and want and
worry as though there were no God. As though I were not loved.
I believe in right and wrong, and that I need saving from myself.
I need a God who is wiser than my purposes, deeper than my
hopelessness, higher than my dreams – a God who owes me nothing.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, Resurrection power
in this flesh and in the heart that fails me.
But how easily would I make my professions on a bed of nails,
not the carpet of ease and cultural civility of my times? On my deathbed
I will call myself Christian because grace will have won out in the end.
This I believe.
*This line a summation of the gospel by author and pastor Dr. Timothy Keller
Not my exact theology, but I was very touched. Happy Easter to those who celebrate it. Feel free to take the likes and comments over to Lisa’s.
Originally posted on Underground Energy:
I sit in the silence of my heart where I find you time and again. The Holy of Holies in the inner chamber of the temple that you inhabit. The caress of the wind is the sweet sound of your voice that cleanses my soul. I honor the sacrifice that you made for all humans ever born on the face of the earth, but I am happiest when I remove the nails from your hands and feet honoring the life that you achieved in pure grace and mercy. The path opened for all who would see as you entered the realm of heaven and prepared a place for us just like you promised you would. Truly the King of all kings. You are Lord. May the angel of death pass us over by your name.
I noticed something about the colors of the words that streamed from my head when I started blogging two years ago. The spectrum had many light, bright hues. Looking back at the single young woman from this side of time, I was a little startled at the levity in the beloved writing that I had picked up again. Because for much of my life, I wrote from a very dark place.
There is a creative force to the darkness, hence the archetypal artist whose work is an expression of his inner drama. In high school when my writing was a way of repainting and processing grief and anger, I was drawn to poets and writers like Sylvia Plath who spoke out of emptiness and flat despair. As my faith and hope in God grew into my 20s, I recognized a troubling truth. While my work was reflecting more light, an enduring spirit of despondency continued to inspire my art in both poetry and song composition.
And I didn’t mind.
I was tasting the addictiveness of writing under darker influences. The dynamic is fascinating to me. But it was remarkable that after a decade of sporadic writing that had gathered dust, I saw the sun on my words. I don’t think the glad divergence could be distilled down to my faith, which was in many ways stronger in my younger days. Deep faith, in any case, does not leave us immune from crippling self-talk or depression, as many spiritual giants in Christian history have shown. Nor could it be a straight matter of the joy I have experienced with my family through my 30s because life has been imperfect there, too. It is more the rawness, the edginess the Great Potter has abraded and sanded of my spirit. The keen knowledge of my own weaknesses and the awareness that everyone is a work in progress so I can relax and forgive and enjoy my life more was the posture from which I started to blog. I now feel it was a cop-out to depend on the spirit of encumberance to fuel my creativity. Certainly life is a mosaic of the great occasions of surprise, happiness, and pain and it is the helpless business of the artist to paint these colors in his chosen medium. But I no longer gravitate to the dark hues in my storytelling – because I don’t have to. I have found myself enjoying the beauty, redemption, transformation of my art as I discover these very elements in the poetry of life.
If I could I would gather all the words from the wild, pick them like berries and press them into these pages to bleed them, beautiful, into my notebook I would chase syllable streams that refresh dry banks and stop. at the quarry where I will cut confused hands on stone, going through the ruins of my dreams and I will bottle my cries to pour over the altar of my art If I could I would answer the laughter in the wind, unravel the rhetoric of the rain, and walking dirt and gravel transcribe the vernacular of city streets I would record every note of joy from children and undo the silence of grandmothers, ask them about dogged hope I would keep on west of my despair, right through the dying sun and spell the sunrise as he lights land and sea in the genius of resurrection.