This is the same skin I wore last night.
I have not showered.
I have not changed my clothes.
My skin is old, and growing older,
Growing paper-thin and losing might
With every hour.
My circulation slows.
Residues of Then grow colder,
Seep into my skin, sink out of sight.
They wax in power:
When I neglect my skin, they grow
And join into a chilling parasite.
Somewhere along the line, something has opened my eyes to the problem of suffering. I can see it and can feel it on the behalf of others. It's everywhere. The world is broken, hearts are shattered, institutions are corrupt.
This is an important realization, I think. But somehow, I have begun to doubt the Lord's provision and care. I was just reading Psalm 37 today:
"Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness. Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart."
"...the Lord laughs at the wicked, for he sees that his day is coming."
"I have been young and now am old, yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken or his children begging for bread."
"The Lord helps [the righteous] and delivers them; he delivers them from the wicked and saves them, because they take refuge in him."
Suddenly, these declarations seem of dubious worth. They make me think about my understandings of brokenness, justice, righteousness. The justice of this world is too often unjust -- where is this divine justice the Psalmist speaks about? I hunt for it diligently, with patience. And while I hunt, I search my heart. This may take awhile...
Well, I made about $100 tonight, selling vino, pasta and dolce. And guess who has the REST OF THE WEEKEND OFF... If you're thinking of anyone except me, I can't really say if you're right or not: I don't know. But if you're thinking of ME, you're right!
You clever devil, you.
I'm feeling some small anxiety because potential plans have been supplanted by contingency plans. I greatly pondered trying to get off this weekend to drive up to WV and see my dear madre on her birthday. But I figured I had to work, and then I decided to squeeze a few more commitments into my weekend. Due to a freakish alignment of planets and stars that only occurs once ever, management proceeded to QUITE UNEXPECTEDLY gave me the whole weekend off. Two whole days!
But I can't take a road trip now because of these other plans. Grr. Sigh. Oh well. To make myself feel better, here is a list of things I'm going to enjoy about being off:
* taking a walk outside
* not eating Italian food
* sleeping in
* catching up on laundry and correspondence
* going to the bathroom whenever I feel like it
* keeping my cellphone on my person ALL THE TIME
* 6 Flags with Perry, Goodman and DeBardeleben -- woohoo!
This morning I'm sipping spiced chai and waiting for my freshly bleached work shirts to finish their cycle in the dryer. I'm wondering about my blog and about the way I stay in touch with people. Lately, I've been spending half my time and energy at the restaurant, a third of it on developing relationships with coworkers, another third on getting involved in church and my local community, and a final third on raising support to work with Enterprise. If you're running the numbers, you should notice that this isn't really working out for me.
(taking another sip.)
Of course, not sleeping helps squeeze a few more hours into the day.
(sip.)
Anyway you slice it, time management isn't happening right now. One thing I've noticed is that I don't really have time to blog or to stay in touch with friends. All of my communication ends up being "strategic." The only personal correspondance I have with friends and family are occasional voice mail messages and little notes with meaningful quotes or short poems. Forget real conversations.
(sip. sip.)
Not a good thing. It even spills over into my blog. No time for real posts, just gonna throw something out there that more or less encapsulates how I'm doing in the most efficient way possible. Sheesh!
So I had all day off yesterday, and now I'm feeling better. (sip.) Much better. I'm going to try walking by faith a little more. Heck, waht am I saying? I AM TIRED of walking by sight. It's WAY too draining! I have found myself going to Absolut promotional parties (the new absolut peach is ridiculously tasty) with coworkers because they're desperate for real relationships and always ready to talk philosophy. I figured I could make relationships happen by the strength of my own arm. That's sortof working, but only barely. (sip.)
(big sip. more thoughts about coworkers. loooong siiiiiip.)
I've also found myself serving other people so that they will notice what a good friend I am -- teammates, housemates, friends, family, churchmembers. Again, forcing community by the strength of my own arm.
Not that these are bad things to do, mind you. I'm only saying that I think these tasks would be less stressful, less manic, and less fraught with performance anxiety if I trustued the Lord to do all these things and to make my decisions based on prayer and sensitivity to the Spirit. Hmmm. This would mean no longer being afraid that I'll goof up my relationships. I'm not sure I want to let go of that fear, after all these years.
(sip the last of my chai.)
Ok. Time to walk by faith to the dryer and then do some ironing, by faith. Let's take this one step at a time. I need some more tea.
"No honest man can say 'I am holy,' but neither is any honest man willing to ignore the solemn words of the inspired writer, 'Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord.'
"Caught in this dilemma, what are we Christians to do? We must like Moses cover ourselves with faith and humility while we steal a quick look at the God whom no man can see and live. The broken and contrite heart He will not despise. We must hide our unholiness in the wounds of Christ as Moses hid himself in the cleft of the rock while the glory of God passed by. We must take refuge from God in God. Above all we must believe that God sees us perfect in His Son while He disciplines and chastens and purges us that we may be partakers of His holiness."
A. W. Tozer, Knowledge of the Holy. HarperSanFrancisco. New York: 1961
Today I face the east.
My arms are bare to the pow'r
of a sun I cannot see,
befriended by its warmth.
And yet my eyes are gripped in fear:
I will not look at it.
I can clearly fix in place this closest
burning star, sensing her warmth and light.
Her close position known unto my mind,
I somehow cannot tear my eyes from earth.
Just as Icarus, had he survived,
would sure have set a boundary for his gaze,
would have seen only paths, and roads, and ways,
so I see only plans and never stars.
Am I afraid of slick ambition's germ?
Or of infatuation's green malaise?
Or am I simply shy of granting sway
over my soul to things greater than me?
As inward battles wage, I take a poll:
the arms have been outvoted.
I turn to walk indoors, to gloom and rust.
My arms are made of chlorophyll;
my eyes, of dust.
Went to a fabulous concert tonight -- Moby at the Tabernacle, here in ATL -- completely enjoyable. I met Mike on the front steps and hour and a half before the opening act. We ate and caught up on our talking at the Landmark Diner and then strolled back down to claim our will-call tickets. Lots of scalpers... I must remember that, the next time.
The crowd was small for the first guy -- turned out he was more of a performance artist than strict musician. I liked him a lot, but you could tell he wasn't the main attraction. (He left to lots of applause, though.) Folks kept trickling in the doors during his act and during the INTERMINABLE wait that followed. I mean, we could easily have squeezed another opener in there. Easily.
Anyway, our waiting was richly rewarded. Moby's entourage of four swaggered confidently out before the man himself, primed to start jamming as soon as the man himself stepped foot upon the stage. And jam they did.
It was somewhere during the first set that I noticed a middle-aged, heavyset woman standing off to my left, looking over the crowd from our balcony perch to where the musicians stood. She was wearing a bright, floral mumu and big beads. Sparse, colored curls sprouted above her brows in a matronly fashion, making her look in my mind as if her name should be something a little old-fashioned, like Fanella or Marjorie. There she stood against the wall, seemingly unaware of the visual anachronism she provided.
What first caught my eye wasn't her out-of-place attire or demographic -- there were lots of ages and outfits sprinkled throughout the crowd. I first noticed her because she was genuinely excited about the music itself. She had a sort of sway going, shoulders leading with the rhythm, and her eyes were happy. It spoke of a different drummer. It stood out.
I checked up on her several times as the show went on, my admiration mounting with every glance. The exuberance of other audience members waxed and waned as they drank, got excited, and then got tired. Not Marjorie. She wore a look and swayed a quiet sway of consistent engagement, the kind of look a person gives to the bearer of good tidings. Attention for entertainment: a very satisfactory transaction. I don't know how much she paid for her ticket, but I know she was getting her money's worth.
Rock on, Marjorie. Rock on.
Well, I'm glad you asked. Here's what's going on:
Basketball today with church friends and good conversations last night with local folks, crappy times for at least three of my closest long-distance friends I can't seem to get in touch with, travel plans for this summer, more dead-ends for support-raising, long hours at the restaurant -- yeah. That about sums it up.
Oh, and I have about 100 e-mails that need replies before 10 am tomorrow...
Lately-reads: "The Idea of Order at Key West," by Wallance Stevens; Genesis chapter 14 (Abram kicks tail and takes names while rescuing his wayward nephew); Pedagogy of the Opressed, by Paolo Friere.
Lessons learned from reading the Chronicles of Narnia:
to receive love from proud mice, like Aslan received that of Reepacheep,
to use the gifts of Father Christmas in their appointed time,
to explore attics (and new worlds) like Digory Kirk,
to recognize the lust and squalor of Queen Jadis in myself and others,
to love like Lucy loved,
to be humble before lions,
to shed my dragonskin, and
to respect marshwiggles.
I called out an acquaintance today.
I asked him about an interaction he had with another person in which he was more than a little unkind. I led him up to the truth as I saw it and then laid out on the table how I thought that other person felt. My unkind acquaintance (who is actually usually much kinder than I am) gave me a blank stare, then justified his actions. He gave me several good reasons for not affirming or encouraging or even hearing the other person.
I thought it best to shift the conversation to another topic, so I might have the chance to get over being shocked and think. I'm still thinking.
I was tempted to react, to assume a soapbox preacher's position and deliver a powerful lecture on the importance of kindness in relationships, but it struck me that this friend's reasons for being unkind were politcal, economic, and culturally sensitive in nature. In fact, his reasons match a lot of the m.o. I am asked to assume as a "worker" in a "sensitive area." I do not wish EVER to be unkind or misleading for the sake of being politically correct, but is that realiztic?
Humbug.