Wet Mind Boxes

I wrote this poem during the year that Hans and I were living in different cities, and at a time when I was still adjusting to life outside the Reservation. I have been reminded lately of that time and its challenges, which are similar to those in my life right now. My professor was talking about a ceremony that the Israelites used to do during this time of year during the Feast of Booths. In Israel it is the harvest season, but also the end of the dry season, so water is scarce. So they hiked from Jerusalem to the Pool of Salome for seven days to draw what little water was left and they poured it out in front of the temple as they processed with Psalms. There was something about this that has felt insightful and important. As if to say to God, it is dry, but I am seeking you and showing something tangible, an offering of water that is so precious at the end of the dry season. In my heart I know that in the dry season I don't travel to the water and pour out my offering to God, but instead seek out numbing agents to pass the time. But, when I heard about this I knew that I was like the Israelites, that I needed to continue to dip my cup in the water of life and ask for help again and again. So I share this in hopes that indeed, this is the end of he dry season for me, as I persevere to trust God to give what I need. Also, to remind myself of the many gifts of love and grace, like puddles in the road, I've been given along the way.

Wet Mind Boxes
November 2008

From the window, in my room,
The spacious skies seem like doom.
Form the strange, conscious, moons,

that throw, and throw, and throw.
The distance burns us dry
As empty as the vacant

House next door, the eyesore.
Then the rain falling on the pane
Says something to muddled brain.

Sings pattering like the steps
Of children dancing 'round brooms.
Says something about time,

Waiting-patterns of grace on
The cusp of the face, of the face,
The face of every created thing.

Brenda's Top Ten Reasons why the Wedding industry is crazier than a box of turtles on Meth:

10.Almost every advertisement, magazine, and vendor markets to brides only because they think all grooms are like Drew Barrymore's stupid fiance on “The Wedding Singer”(With the exception of Portland Bride and Groom magazine.)
9. All wedding industry drones say, “This is your day!” with a devilish grin, but what the really mean is, “If you choose to use my services/venue I own your ass.”
8. Common fine print of wedding venues are as follows: Base fee $1500 for 6 hours, if you want carpet on the floor $50, chairs and tables $500, linens $300, forks $100, other utensils are extra, a jug of water $10, light bulbs in the fixtures $50,TP in the bathroom $200, air fresheners in the bathroom $500, and to use your own caterer instead of our overpriced one, you must give a check for %15 percent of the catering bill to my evil organization (this last one is for real).
7. Even the dudes at the tuxedo places are passive aggressive and say things like, “Let me ask you a question: Do you not think that the colors you picked out with this vest and tie would look totally ugly?” or“Wouldn't you rather have what I've just suggested instead of what you just explicitly told me you want?”
6. Wedding industry drones think they have telepathic abilities and tell you exactly what you want and how you would like to have your wedding.
5. Everyone (even perfect strangers) gives you free advice (grit grit grit), even the guy at Men's Warehouse who is still waiting for the right girl to find him on e-harmony.
4. Wedding industry drones are like the storm troopers from Star Wars, only they don't have the same outfits and they technically aren't clones.
3. Finding a place to have your wedding for less than half a million dollars is like being on the Matrix, taking the blue pill, and finding how deep the rabbit hole goes, accept you can't wear cool outfits or beat up the people trying to control your mind.
2. Everyone tells you to by their crap that you could make for a lot less. Example: David's Bridal veil price: $135, vs. Making it your own damn self price: $25.00.
1. Many respectable churches will squeeze just as much, or even more money out of poor bride and grooms to be, or their families, as every one else. They will also be just as controlling and make you pay their pastor to marry and counsel you into matrimony, tell you not to have real rose petals, and make you give a pound of flesh if you break anything in the church or make any noises louder than a mouse screaming “Help me, Help me, I am in a box with a bunch of turtles on Meth.”

The Red String

This whole week my stomach has been upset, every morning I have awaken to the sensation of some sort of burning oil trying to escape my stomach through my throat. I have been fighting myself, attempting to keep my mind occupied, attempting to give my self amnesia, unsuccessfully attempting to not see the signs on the road that have said, “Engagement Ahead”. But, it was so difficult to ignore suspicious boyfriend who closed e-mails quickly and went on “mysterious” errands. Still I have to give him props for successfully laying doubt upon my firm feelings by placing little traps on twitter etc. This same week I started hyperventilating emotionally about our future financial situation. It all felt so unknown and frightening as I felt a growing fear of deficit grow in my mind. As I assessed my situation I realized more and more how little I felt I had to offer. So I'd ping pong between speculations about engagement and fears about life in general. So, when my sister, Christine, and friend Joanna, hopped into the car on our way to Multnomah Falls I tried to squelch all expectations of any sort down with all that stomach acid.
The road was windy and long because I had the smart idea of taking the scenic route, which only added to the nausea. Joanna asked me if I was OK in the back, but I knew her driving was not the cause of my stomach pain at this point, so I said I was, “Fine.” Christine, Joanna and I took pictures with the droves of people at the falls, endured the scenery for about ten minutes when Joanna suggested that we find a more secluded location because, “it was too crowded.”
We quickly drove to a little trail called Angel's Rest, near Bridal Veil Falls, and like good Asians we took lots of goofy pictures along the way. It was a strange experience to ascend to the unknown, knowning that something monumental could be just around the corner. First, every person that passed us on the way was eyed very suspiciously, but then dismissed quickly as I tried to apprehend just what the surprise ahead would be. I guess that is the trick with surprises, even if you know one is coming, you still don't really know how it will be packaged. My impatience gave in about ten minutes up when I started to begrudge Hans for making me walk so far, and at such a steep angle, to reach whatever he had planned. But about five minutes and two water breaks later (I am apparently out of shape) we reached a little tree that had a sign, unmistakably in Hans writing, “Please Don't Touch”. Then ahead was some red string that ran away through the bushes hugging the right side of the trail. It was there Christine and Joanna told me this is where they were leaving me, that I should simply follow the red string and I'd be fine. As I hugged them goodbye and thanked them for getting me this far I was almost embarrassed within myself that I had no idea really how to proceed from here. I think I even glanced back at them as I rounded the bend up and away from them on the path, searching for some answer in their comforting presence. But then it was simply me, the red yarn, and the way it looked against the vibrant green foliage next to the rocky path ahead. A hiker passed me by and I tried not to look like I was following a red string through the woods.
Finally the string crossed the path ahead and I half expected Hans to jump out from a tree at that point. But thankfully he didn't, the red string just lead into another thicker path. It was then, in the still forest, I realized my heart was pounding, and I had been almost running the entire way. So I took a breath and looked ahead at the string in the wood, I felt sort of frantic and I realized that all my guessing was giving me heartburn instead of the joy I wanted to skip down this little path with. I felt a tug on my heart and a whisper that said, “You can trust where he's taking you.” I thought about how afraid I was and how worried I'd been about our lives and I knew that God was using this path and this little string to show me how I'll be blessed if I trust him. So I relaxed and believed, and I walked ahead some more, pushing little branches out of my way. I finally saw Hans and his bright colored vest just through the bushes. He smiled and said, “Hi,” or something like that. He also helped me climb down some rocks, holding my hand so I wouldn't slip.
We arrived at the destination, a waterfall you can walk right up to that had step-like rocks jetting out of it and some funky moss that looked like big red hairs. Hans then ruffled in his pockets for a white piece of paper and unfolded it saying, “I”m going to read you a poem I've written you.” So he read it, and some parts I was a little distracted by the waterfall, but I got most of it enough to know get that at the end he was asking me to be is wife. That part he repeated and pulled out a small wooded box, which he opened to reveal a picture of a white flower he'd cut to reveal my mom's old ring renewed, shined up and changed color. I said, “Yes” with a big hug, that puffed out air from his poofy vest, and a couple of kisses. We enjoyed the next couple moments in relative silence sitting by the fall looking out into the forest, eating cheese and crackers, sipping some wine and discussing little things that weren't that important, but interesting to us at the time. How much I'd guessed, how long he'd waited for me, what we'd both been nervous about. I thought about how I was going to call him “fiance,” from now on, but that still hasn't sunk in yet.
Since that Saturday, I've been thinking about that red string, been thinking about it leading me down the path and how strange it felt to simply trust the placer of the string to lead me. It was strange how hard it was for me to just enjoy. Also, I think about Rahab who trusted the spies to honor their word by putting a red string out her window and was rewarded with, not only a new life, but a God who loved and care for her all her days. When remember the red yarn in the forest I remember the story of Jesus in the wedding at Cana, the story that Christine read me the day before the engagement. Here I was so afraid of some sort of lingering deficit, of a scarcity that hadn't even happened yet, and here was a story about running out of wine at a wedding. When there is a deficit what do we do? When there is a minus there is a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, a weight around your neck that tells you you are doomed, hopeless, this is a cancer that will grow within you and never leave, there is a finality in this deficit that appears like death.  And when you are a real adult, the first response is usually to ignore this sinking feeling, but after a while it grows and grows until it looms like the shadow of a UFO hovering above you, stalking your steps.  Until finally the real adult can do nothing but cry the tears they have been saving up, and ask the question they've needed to ask all along which is, Dad, why did you let this happen?  I say Dad and I mean Daddy in heaven. To which I have no confirmation on what he reply might be, but would venture a guess that what ever it is we need to hear it.  Perhaps he'll say, "this does not concern me, it is not time yet."  But, perhaps in the background of our lives, before we even know we are about to run dry, God is sending someone to fill up stone jars of water and turning that water into wine.  

Day One, Day One, Start Over Again

Everyday I begin with trepidation, reborn and shivering, everything is magnified or muted. I am lost and want to be productive, helpful, though it is hard to just do those things for my own edification. I lack the discipline to do good for good’s sake. Often loose touch with God. But, when I stop he says, “Follow me,” and I am often reluctant and frightened. I have this idea I think from God to just walk around the city on the max go down town and pray so I’d like to do that, each day seems to fill up with my own little tasks or distractions and I haven’t done it yet. So my goal, on Monday to do that beginning I guess in the morning sometime and come home in the afternoon. It be nice to have a friend to do things with like this, or tennis, but for now I think ti would be good to go in alone. It reminds me of Hong Kong, newness, when all of life feels like a risk.
I miss the wide-open space of the Rez, how easy it is to feel free and full of the sky. It feels like here everything is so closed in and hilly that the expanse of heaven has shrunk. But it is just my view of heaven that has shrunk not heaven itself. I really miss being able to have Christine close and her companionship, just staying up and talking into the night, or playing games, or watching TV, mostly I do that alone now and it feels so much more empty. My hope for this place I don’t know how to locate, so many things I can’t locate inside of myself, and still I feel blessed perhaps guilty for the blessing of such a insulated life and at the same time I’m not sure I enjoy this lifestyle as much as the one I had before. The city is exciting and scary, the traffic makes me cuss and hit my car, but I am starting to adjust. I guess this is what they call culture shock. I miss brown people and not feeling like I have to look nice to fit in. I hate not being able to walk to the store and being able to not talk to anyone if I don’t have to. Its weird, I keep expecting to see the same people I used to, to wake up and talk to Christine, or get a random call from Corey, or Kris Sohappy asking me for a ride. It’s like I half expect to show up at youth group next month and unlock the stinky Presbyterian Church building and see James, Tino and Caleb waiting for me to let them in.
Sometimes I feel so useless here, like I’m just taking up space and not affecting any sort of common good. It’s hard being a busy bee when you can’t see the flowers and miss the smell of honey.
Still I am looking forward to being in a different kind of community, with some friends from college we are starting a little small group. Also, the green trees are helpful, I really need growing things to survive spiritually, even if they are seeds that haven’t sprouted yet. I think I need to find some grass and stare at it long enough to see a couple bugs. Usually that lightens my heart, seeing little ants or flying things helps me to relax. Those sort of pictures of God help the feelings of inadequacy and fear subside and remind me that the Creator loves the flying things and he loves me more (not sure why). I’ve been reading this Anne Lamott book and she says something like, when all else fails, ask for help and follow directions. Which is helpful for me, but even before that, my insides usually need to be reworked, cracked open enough to let out the muddy gunk, allow the wax out of my soul’s ears so it can hear the million different ways God is saying, “I love you.” I am scared and nervous about life right now in all this newness. Most of the time I freak out and then finally get to the point where I have to choose between my freakish existence and simply believing that, one way or another, my Father in Heaven will be faithful, as he has been over the last 24 years of my life, and particularly the last three. In Psalm 37 it says, “Dwell in the land and feed on His faithfulness.” That I guess is what I hope to do, as scary as it is sometimes.

Trail of Hope

The rubber is hitting the road again, on tires and on shoes. Here I am on another road trip, with 13 youth group kids in tow, three vehicles and 6 other staff. Still, we carry a lot more with us than our luggage and food. We also carry our insatiable hunger. I would be essentializing if I tried to sum up what it was we are all hungry for. But there was a speaker this morning at this "Trial of Hope" conference we've traveled to that said in his people's language the word "God" is translated as:"The Chief over and above everything." It seems too, our hunger is narrated in so many ways as we live out our life, and what we are hungering for feels even more elusive than our thoughts. Even the sages of the past like, Lao Tze, searched out what he could only call "the way of heaven". I think if he lived today and was an indigenous person he might of called what he was searching for, the "trail of hope." I'm not sur exactly what it is, the long days, and constant mental and spiritual work out, but this trip I have been especially ravenous in my hunger for the living God, for the Chief over and above everything.
I've been thinking about this song during my time here in Durango, CO at the Fort Lewis College Campus. It talks about this trail of freedom we have to find amidst the painful history of this country. Its the part that talks about looking at the past trail of broken promises, hearing the footsteps of tears along the way and then continuing to look for the trail that will lead us home...and I would add, our home in the Creator.
"There's a trail of tears we could follow, can you hear the footsteps of the Cherokee. Its a trail of broken promises, will you walk this trail with me...
Hey brothers, we must walk with the pride of Cheif Joseph, have the courage of Geronimo. For this trail its long, so you have to be strong, just to find your way back home..." -Bill Miller "Trail of Freedom"
In this time, if I stop and let myself be still for a few moments it doesn't take long to taste that hunger and to feel just how broken I feel inside as well. To see how often I am quick to anger and wrath even though the psalmist said, "Refrain from anger and turn from wrath; do not fret—it leads only to evil." Yet, again I find myself stuck with a choice, to respect the Lord's love for me and let go of my own hurt, or remain in the darkness of my own will. So what is it that I am hungry for besides a meal that isn't from Mcdonalds or Burger King? It seems trite to say, but I think what I desire is communion with God. Not to put him on this list and make sure I've "placed" Him first somehow. But, a deep connection so deep that I am known by Him. Yet,it is my own darkness that keeps me from walking in that direction.

Growing Things

Lately I've been thinking about growing things. Maybe this phenomenon has occurred because lately I've been pretty stuck and having a hard time with personal growth. But, there is something so precious and hopeful about something that hasn't arrived, but is on its way to being grown. Sometimes in the pruning process the outside looks a bit more like mutilation than growth. But, if you don't cut down the wild direction less and diseased branches the rest of the plant will suffer in the long run.
The other day i was sitting at home listening to the familiar sounds of my apartment and surfing the internet when I heard a not so familiar sound. It was a little chirp, but I thought I was imagining it until my roomate came in tenderly and held up a small box and said, "Surpise!" I looked eagerly into the shoe box and found a little black speckled chick. It was adorable, and this fragile being that needed our care. We rescued it from a teenager, its a long story, but I'm sure you can understand the need. For the next couple days we fussed over our chick and tried our best to care for it. The first night I had a dream that it died because it was too cold, so I woke up and rushed into the bathroom to look into its new box and saw it sleeping soundly its little furry body moving slightly with its chick breaths. All the sudden there was this great visual, a little growing thing. Its been hard for me to find hope lately and Percy the chick really helped me to remember that as long as we're growing there is hope. Sometimes I just want to find the fix for my failings, or for other peoples failings and forget that I have often left out the part where Grace enters into the picture. The grace of growing things is that they are working towards a better picture of who they were meant to be, but it is ok that they are not there yet. In my perfectionist mind I often get stuck on the ways I am not right and then I'm paralyzed. I feel hard and distant from God who I assume is disappointed in me. When in reality he is waiting in love, and correcting me perhaps, in love, wanting to embrace me even though I'm covered in sin, if i am willing to let Him in and trust Him. This lesson is a difficult, and good. But, i must remember that I too am a growing thing. That when I look at a little growing flower, a little growing chick, I see something precious and beautiful and I don't dislike them because they are not blooming or full grown chickens. In the same way when God looks at me he sees a growing thing and he loves me as that. What a comforting thought, and this thought saves me daily.

Yet this I call to Mind

Life is full of strange fragile moments. One moment I am greedily playing tennis and then the next a ball slips under my foot and I am bearing down under the pain in my ankle unable to move. This recent event is significant for me because it marks an intense difficulty, a split moment that takes a long time to work out its consequences. Somehow God always uses stuff like this to really get to the point. Like a big pruning shear in the sky, sometimes he swoops down and cuts us down with precision and it hurts but it is definitely bearable and better than eternal separation from God. Through it all I do feel a bit mangled and dragged around like Jeremiah in Lamentations, although he has more right to feel that way than I. I don't mind as much as I used to that I now have to rely on friends to get around, eat, pick up after myself etc. But it is a reminder that one of my fundamental problems is that I am proud of being independent and often think I am a person unto myself, unconnected to God or anyone else. Though I am learning that I'd rather be a sinner with a forgiving, loving heart than a righteous person harboring bitterness and unforgiveness. Still, I am more like Simon the Pharisee who criticized Jesus for letting a "sinful" woman touch him than the woman who poured out her alabaster jar upon our Lords head and wept at his feet in adoration. I long to be the one close to Jesus though, the one who was forgiven much and who loves much. In this process of being hurt and uncovering more of my rotten heart, I have learned that I have been forgiven much even the hidden sins in my heart that no one sees. So, I am encouraged this morning by the words of Lamentations that Jeremiah writes. This man of sorrow who has seen every kind of suffering can call to mind why he has hope.

He has broken my teeth with gravel;
he has trampled me in the dust.

I have been deprived of peace;
I have forgotten what prosperity is.

So I say, "My splendor is gone
and all that I had hoped from the LORD."

I remember my affliction and my wandering,
the bitterness and the gall.

I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.

Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:

Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, "The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him."

The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him,
to the one who seeks him;

it is good to wait quietly
for the salvation of the LORD.