"It's not hot." --My Dad to Casie
"But you eat Tabasco." --Casie
"I believe in God and I believe in prayer, and I also believe that God made people to be doctors."--Dr. Lackan
"I'm not being mean-spirited. I'm being jovial." --Laurel
"You should tell him he should love you." --Wells
26 December 2007
19 December 2007
Last Day, I
When I was twenty-one, I was in a Spring term seminar led by Dan Sundahl on modernizing the sonnet form. One of my cohorts called me in the fall to enlist me for the writing troops. On an autumn afternoon, I remember Scott's cajoling voice, "C'mon, we need a certain number for the class to make." I remember being scared. I wanted to be writer, but I didn't want to be a writer who shared writing. I signed up anyway.
My maternal grandmother, the last of my grandparents, died on the first Friday night of the Spring semester. I was up late reading, but had enough sleep to meet my best friend Stephanie for breakfast at the dining hall. She was the student manager and when I arrived, she was on the phone. I didn't know it then, but she was talking to my mother. Stephanie was very quiet while we ate and while I read Oswald Chambers aloud after our meal (it was January 23rd in My Utmost). Upon returning to Waterman Residence, I found a package on the mail table--the friend who had pointed the way to Hillsdale sent a volume of Francis Thompson's poems, knowing that I was thinking of the Hound of Heaven. Stephanie was not far behind. She asked if she could study with me. Not long after, the phone in my room rang. I stood on the couch, very chipper, ready to chat with the caller, my mother. Stephanie sat on my bed and the morning sun poured over her.
Later, Stephanie said that it was odd to watch me fall from an inward height. She noted that I was very happy--standing on the sofa, hearing my mother's voice, in possession of a new volume, and in the company of a friend--then she watched me fall from that happiness. My mother's voice was tired when she sighed and said, "Grandma died last night." Still standing on the couch, I cried out, "Stephanie!," and she ran across the room, arms open and folded me in as I sobbed. In a moment, from within the silent house, there was a gathering at the door of my room. Everyone else knew. They were the ones who had given my mother Stephanie's number at the dining hall. My mother later explained, "I didn't want you to be alone."
I missed the first day of the sonnet seminar because I was in Phoenix for the funeral. I returned on Thursday, sought out my professor on Friday, and braced myself for Monday's meeting.
That Spring, I wrote "Last Day," a sonnet about an artist's death. I wrote many other things, but I remember that it was the dying artist who made me bound out of bed in the middle of the night to find the light of my desk and write. The work started with the only line I was allowed to salvage from another sonnet: "My heart can feel the color." That was all, I was told, I could use to write the next work.
Grief is, I think, one of the best things that can happen to an artist. It breaks down your guard for a while and your life comes out in musical notes, in paint, on the stage, and in words. My life came out, for a while, in fourteen line poems.
My maternal grandmother, the last of my grandparents, died on the first Friday night of the Spring semester. I was up late reading, but had enough sleep to meet my best friend Stephanie for breakfast at the dining hall. She was the student manager and when I arrived, she was on the phone. I didn't know it then, but she was talking to my mother. Stephanie was very quiet while we ate and while I read Oswald Chambers aloud after our meal (it was January 23rd in My Utmost). Upon returning to Waterman Residence, I found a package on the mail table--the friend who had pointed the way to Hillsdale sent a volume of Francis Thompson's poems, knowing that I was thinking of the Hound of Heaven. Stephanie was not far behind. She asked if she could study with me. Not long after, the phone in my room rang. I stood on the couch, very chipper, ready to chat with the caller, my mother. Stephanie sat on my bed and the morning sun poured over her.
Later, Stephanie said that it was odd to watch me fall from an inward height. She noted that I was very happy--standing on the sofa, hearing my mother's voice, in possession of a new volume, and in the company of a friend--then she watched me fall from that happiness. My mother's voice was tired when she sighed and said, "Grandma died last night." Still standing on the couch, I cried out, "Stephanie!," and she ran across the room, arms open and folded me in as I sobbed. In a moment, from within the silent house, there was a gathering at the door of my room. Everyone else knew. They were the ones who had given my mother Stephanie's number at the dining hall. My mother later explained, "I didn't want you to be alone."
I missed the first day of the sonnet seminar because I was in Phoenix for the funeral. I returned on Thursday, sought out my professor on Friday, and braced myself for Monday's meeting.
That Spring, I wrote "Last Day," a sonnet about an artist's death. I wrote many other things, but I remember that it was the dying artist who made me bound out of bed in the middle of the night to find the light of my desk and write. The work started with the only line I was allowed to salvage from another sonnet: "My heart can feel the color." That was all, I was told, I could use to write the next work.
Grief is, I think, one of the best things that can happen to an artist. It breaks down your guard for a while and your life comes out in musical notes, in paint, on the stage, and in words. My life came out, for a while, in fourteen line poems.
09 December 2007
OPC's
Thanksgiving 2007This afternoon, I had a delightful surprise when two little girls walked into a gathering at church with their dad. C and J are two of my favorite OPC's (Other People's Children).
07 December 2007
Keri
The New Boss When I asked Keri if I could take her picture, she asked, "Why? What are you doing?" I explained that I wrote little vignettes on friends for friends. She said, "I'm scared my head will end up attached to something else in an email." I protested, and while she was reluctant, she gave me a good smile.
I want y'all to see Keri because you've heard me talk about her. She became my manager in late October. I'm very happy to be working with her. She approaches management from a mentoring perspective--she's intentional and deliberate, qualities which I deeply value in an environment where the list of things to learn is very long.
The past two days, Keri has been out of town, and though she was gone, I felt deep gratitude for having a good boss. While I've struggled in the past year to latch on to my profession, I had a purchase this week I haven't had heretofore. Today, after much weakness, I felt like I was moving forward with strength. For this, and for Keri, I am very grateful.
02 December 2007
Waiting for God
Advent Tree
I shocked my mother when I announced that I had purchased an "Advent Tree" because I am the anti-Christmas decoration girl in my mother's house. I explained that since I opted not to make an Advent wreath, I would have a little tree that could be planted in the ground after Christmas. I have a colleague who agreed to plant it at her ranch.
I don't stand upon ceremony to wait to light the different candles, even though I know the virtue of patience is symbolized in the waiting. Everyday, I need the reminders of the hope, joy, peace and love of Christ, and so, I light all the candles at once and pray for each grace to be present in my life.
Isaiah 7:14
"Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel."
Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
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