Monday, December 29, 2008

The Craftsman--in part

I remember my first time (ok, ok, only) time in a cave. Before that morning, I never could have imagined being unable to see my hand in front of my face. The cave was absolutely devoid of light. What would light be to someone who had never seen it? Pain? Revelation? Magic?

The fire builder approaches the clearing,
Though, really, he has never left.
The trees bow their boughs;
The ground holds its soil;
The sky stirs its wind;
and the builder gathers twigs.

He selects the ones that are ready,
Dry and primed to ignite.
He picks them and piles them,
Dark though it is,
And works toward a workable light.

Nothing is clear in the darkness,
Not even the stars pierce their sky.
Fuzzy dark corners muffle
Even the sounds and the smells.

The builder measures the breeze
and shelters the wood with his chest
Crouching, he gathers his tools
wisps of thin smoke, curls of the thicker,
A spark, a glow, a collection of embers.
Then, light.

hmmm... to bed.
Sleepy, not sleepy, Squash Pie (do NOT (!!) try that one...heh)


Saturday, December 27, 2008

Well, Isn't that Special :)

Dana Carvey cracks me up. Check out his HBO Special: Squatting Monkeys Tell no Lies. :o) Haah.larious.

So, one thing I know: celebrations are what you make them. If you don't bring the confetti, sparkling candles, Trans-Siberian Orchestra Mix, Santa hats, and orange zested sweet potatoes to the party -- who will?

Two: If you (*I*) can't be with family for the holidays, there are plenty of kids in hospitals and older folks in homes who could use a hug and a smile as much as family-scattered you (*moi*).

Three: There's something really cool about holiday traditions. I don't have too many, so I'm going to build my own. Next year, I'm going to some type of holiday concert, adding an ornament to my animal ornament collection, visiting some lonely elderly folks, and hosting a chill "get in the spirit" party before the madness hits in December. :) I really need to sit down and watch The Christmas Story from start to finish. ;)

Plans. Grinch B. Gone. Joy. Saturday Night.


Sunday, December 21, 2008

What the heck is "ministry" anyway?

I drove a different route to a different church this morning. It was the usual city thoroughfare: Starbucks collections, gas stations, restaurants and bead shops in strip malls. As I was speeding to keep up with my buddy's green Honda in front of me ;p , I caught a slow, bold, blur.

A man was pacing in the parking lot of a shop with a "We Buy Gold" sign. His car was the only one in the lot. He wore a white hoodie and paced around his car with a desperate determination--as if eager for the shopkeeper to arrive. I wondered if his kids would be waiting for bowed bicycles on Christmas morning. I wondered what gold he'd be offering for cash. I wondered if he was hungry. I wondered how my life would be different in his shoes. I wondered how many life twists it would take for me to be the one in the white hoodie, pacing desperately outside the Gold Exchange, waiting for a miracle.

Then, church. We sang the Hallelujah Chorus and talked about how Jesus was rejected by his homefolks. We passed the plate, signed the attendance sheet, hugged some necks, and went to lunch. A lovely lady in our small group paid for lunch and I put a $10 on the table as a tip. I was thinking about my homey in white, and wondering how the server was getting by. I'm not rolling in cash, but I had it to give-- and I wanted the server to have it. Another at the table picked up the cash, proffered it like dirt, and said, "What is t h i s?" as if there had been some serious blunder that should be corrected immediately.

Excuse me? Excuse me? I believe in the body of believers. I support the church. I also believe that CHURCH is PEOPLE, in action, showing a supernatural love for others. If I had thrown that bill in the special offering for the building fund, would you have scoffed then? Need we don our "I heart steeples" matching t-shirts and fuel up our church buses to call our contributions to the world worthy? Must our love come through the vehicle of a non-profit-org's planning to be effective?? No. Should I have to explain to you what my motivations were for spending that money? Heck No. Someday, when I meet the Lord, his name will be Jehovah, not *your name*.

Sometimes, I really don't like church people.


Saturday, December 20, 2008

Cycling is a little Funny

I went to a cycling class the other night and it kicked by butt. It was probably the best workout I've had in a year. It was also pretty fun to find myself warped into The World of Bicyclists. I should've worn my "I'm a Newbie" t-shirt. Nah, I sure didn't need a t-shirt.

10. I forgot my biker spandex.

9. I was kicking it with run-o-de-mill Adidas.

8. I was the one reluctant to leave "the saddle".

7. I was the one nursing numb buns. Do bicyclists work up a tolerance for that?

6. I was the one distracted by all the sculpted Man Leg. I guess I know what to do to get my legs in shape.

5. I was the one bopping more to the Motely Crue than the rhythm of the bikers on the simulation screen in front of us.

4. I was the one sitting almost upright. How do they ride hugging the bar like that?

3. I only vaguely know about Critical Mass.

2. I don't even have a bike right now.

1. I was the one knocking myself out with my knees and the pedals when I'd try to slow down. Easy, Wheels...Eaaaaasy.

Good Times. Thanks, bicyclists, for graciously welcoming me into your simulated workout world. I'll be back. fo sho.


Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Finter and Wautum

Concert at Center Stage on 14th--awesome, small, small venue.

Thank you, Mrs. F. for the much needed duds for walking in the woods. Heels don't cut it.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Three-Thirty in the Mawnin

Yes, it is.

Odd how Americans are so protective of privacy, but will live in apartments with thin floors and carry on like banshees. I feel like I should be baking "congratulations!" muffins for the folks upstairs. eh... I think it's time for a shack in the woods. Thoreau?

In wildness is the preservation of the world.

I say beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a wearer of new clothes.
In honor of dark, sleepiness, and good squeezes... A story of a pet bird.

The bird was George De Havilland Grace
Only Grandma knew it

To his friends he was Skippy
and skip he would
Across tables
Down hallways
Over history homework

But Grand knew birds should sing and fly
It bothered her when Skippy would twirtle on by
***Aaaw..rhyming IS better...I'll rewrite this later.***
So, she set out to teach him to bird.

She waved one arm to the left and one on the right
Skippy flapped each of his wings
He looked pretty cheerful and tried to follow
But Grand's waves were tricky
and soon, Skip was skipping

The next day, Grandma began singing lessons
She sang Shenandoah one note at a time
This time, Skippy didn't even try
He stood on the counter, quiet and still

One giant tear slipped from Grandma's eye
In all my nine years, I'd never seen Grandma cry
Skippy looked worried and somewhat contrite
He fluffed up his dander and stood up tall
... And let out the first note of Shenandoah

Only it lingered and cracked like no note scaled
It pierced and it scraped the peaceful, calm air
Pain hit my ears and I closed my eyes
Then, another sound blocked out Skip's cries

Grandma was cackling, laughing out loud
Gripping her sides and kneeling on the ground
Rolling and shaking with giant delight
She said, "Oh, my dear--that bird is a fright."

She patted Skippy on the head,
then winked and skipped down the hallway to bed.

Oooooooooook, this needs work.......back to bed.backtobed.


Thursday, December 4, 2008


Our life always expresses the result of our dominant thoughts.

If I were to wish for anything, I should not wish for wealth and power, but for the passionate sense of the potential, for the eye which, ever young and ardent, sees the possible. Pleasure disappoints, possibility never. And what wine is so sparkling, what so fragrant, what so intoxicating, as possibility!

It belongs to the imperfection of everything human that man can only attain his desire by passing through its opposite.

Prayer does not change God, but it changes him who prays.

I divide my time as follows: half the time I sleep, the other half I dream. I never dream when I sleep, for that would be a pity, for sleeping is the highest accomplishment of genius.

“Do you not know that there comes a midnight hour when every one has to throw off his mask? Do you believe that life will always let itself be mocked? Do you think you can slip away a little before midnight in order to avoid this? Or are you not terrified by it? I have seen men in real life who so long deceived others that at last their true nature could not reveal itself;... In every man there is something which to a certain degree prevents him from becoming perfectly transparent to himself; and this may be the case in so high a degree, he may be so inexplicably woven into relationships of life which extend far beyond himself that he almost cannot reveal himself. But he who cannot reveal himself cannot love, and he who cannot love is the most unhappy man of all.”

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

California Roots

Bob's grandmother was a storyteller and his father, his first mystery. The man was one of the Texas-born Joneses who went south during the Depression to find work and never quite made it home.

Bob's mother was a jokester and a lovely, but hardy woman. After Jones left, she married WC, a man 20-years her senior.

More later. I can't stay awakeeeee...... ;)