Friday, July 26, 2013

oh, filthy woman

Behold, a stranger.  The color of her eyes, pure gift.
Behold the miraculous movements of her hands, her face shape.

Behold the obscurity of her.

No matter her stumbling or stench, grumpiness or paltry appearance.
Within and amongst that, or perhaps despite it, she is sacred.

Simply love her.
With everything in you, welcome her.
As fully as you can, receive her.

Malign her not for she is presented to you with the Highest of shrouded purposes.

Here she is.
Hold her in honor.

Be gentle.

Christ the stranger, susceptible.




Wednesday, July 24, 2013

postcard

Alaskan musician, Marian Call, is doing what she refers to as her postcard tour.  You can see one of her postcards HERE and check out her website if you have time.  Artists can always use some support.




Sunday, July 21, 2013

The Sacred Meeting

"Are you a spy?" asked Jenny.

Dan laughed.  "Not really."

Then silence.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "I would like to be more cheerful for you.  Maybe you've heard the old adage, 'A cheerful look brings health to the bones.'"

"It's okay, Jenny," he said.

She squeezed her eyes shut.  "I'm hurting again."

He looked disappointed.  "Pain usually isn't a very good communicator."

"They say I'm just doing it to myself, and I think they could be right."  She began to cry.

"When I saw your picture I thought you were beautiful.  Now here you are beside me and I can tell you my eyes did not deceive me."

Jenny sneezed.

"Bless you."

"Which eyes are you talking about?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

He nodded.  "The ones you're thinking of."

"Dan?" she said.

"Yeah."

"Sorry about what I told you on the phone yesterday, about it being weird."

He put his finger to his lips and offered a nearly inaudible hush with gentle gaze.  Between the thumb and finger of his other hand, he pulled at brown thread that trailed from the bottom edge of his sweater, and as he did so Jenny's pain traveled to the periphery like a swarm of insects suddenly dispersing.

"Oh," she said.  "The thread.  It's attached to my sweater."

Dan let go of it and took out his wallet.  "Look," he said.  "It's my wonder card."

Her pain became a swarm again.  "I've heard of those cards," she said in quiet voice.  "Give me time."

Monday, July 15, 2013

do you hear what i hear?

Our young one, Trevor, has hearing problems.

Last week I took him to an ENT (ear/nose/throat specialist) for the second time.  The waiting room is decent there.  While Apologize (It's Too Late) played on the radio and my children quarreled over toys, I marveled at the opportunity to parent these adorable, annoying little people.  How amazing is this gift, despite what trials and temptations I've endured thus far in the process.

Next Sarah McLachlan's song came through the speakers:

... we are still innocent
it's easy, we all falter
does it matter?

I looked behind me and noticed a painting of marching trees wearing smocks and stethoscopes around their trunks, and then we were beckoned.


The previous time I took Trevor, the doctor seemed cold and unfeeling inside the windowless room while he used scary-looking, stainless steel instruments to remove clumps of earwax.

Thankfully people are not static!  This time he was warmer and animated with a twinkle in his eye.  "He still has fluid behind his right ear drum," he said.

We decided to book another appointment and, in the meantime, wait to see if it would either clear up or begin to affect the other ear as well.

But later our little guy was up about seven times during the night crying, "My ear hurts!"

The ER doctor thought his ear drum was probably perforated due to the fluid pressure, though it was difficult to tell for sure because of the goop and puss.  Now Trevor's on a regimen of medication and we'll see what happens next.


Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

fence and feign

The fence along the beach helped to keep Moira at ease.  If someone complained something wasn’t fair, she’d only point to the fence as if it had all the answers.  She could enjoy luxury without worrying about getting close to the ocean’s tide which was what she feared most.  She thought the sea maliciously wanted to drown her, but not before burning her with its saltiness.

Sometimes the surfers got close to the fence and, at the sight of them, she’d recede into her familiar crowd.  Blending in was the very best way to hide, but there were also tons of proud balloons—conventional ones—behind which she felt safe and happy.

Occasionally surfers defied the fence by leaning their boards against it and climbing over.  Whenever she saw one do it, she made sure to withdraw into her crowd as soon as possible. 

However, sometimes it couldn’t be helped.  Sometimes they extended a hand, sopping wet from the ocean, in greeting.  When they did, Moira didn’t know whether to harass them or feign acceptance in the hopes they would venture back to the other side of the fence.  So she did both.  As of late she usually chose to fake reception, but the ocean knew.  Underneath her skin she feared and despised the surfers.

 
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