Breath for the Bones: Chapter 6

No grand ideas for a post have come to my mind, though paradoxically this week's chapter on the Holy Spirit and creativity, "Listening to the Muse," spoke to me strongly. I thought I'd share some excerpts from Luci Shaw's writing, and add a note or two as appropriate. She just says it so well. . .

On being attentive:

A tree can't thrash its branches; it waits for the wind to move them. I can manufacture neither poems nor spiritual power, but my task is to be on the spot, watching, ready when the breeze picks up. (p 77)

On art and faith:

There is a radical nature to both art and faith. Both are epiphanic "manifestations." Both are transformative; we are changed as we enter their gleaming realms. They are full of  inexplicable transitions and showings, mysterious both in their origin and mechanism. (p 78)

. . .[I]t is hard to imagine a person full of Spirit who is not in some way creative, innovative, world disturbing. (p 78)

I love that: world disturbing!

To be an artist, to live out. . .a sense of connection with God the transcendent Almighty, in the context of an overwhelmingly material universe--is a kind of evidence of spirituality's existence and importance. (p 79)

Shaw references writer Mary Sarton, who maintains that the creative process is born out of "intense personal relationships." Creativity can therefore transform the one who creates, especially for a Christian who is in relationship with God Himself. I will end with a quote that reflects my desire for life-giving, relational creativity:

As I think about my own poetry, my heart-cry is that my muse be the mind of Christ within me, that my poetry's catalyst may be an intense, sustained interaction with my Maker. (p 86)

Amen and amen.

Lost

Yes, this is a lament, a rant, a brutz, a complaint (call it what you will) about losing things. I've probably just written one of these, but you have no idea: if it were not for my incredible restraint, something similar would be posted several times a week on this blog. But for your sake, I desist. I suffer in silence. I pull my hair and moan inwardly. I do not exaggerate.

What's pushed me out of my self-enforced silence this time is a fake croc. You know, one of those squishy, ugly, indestructible shoes that are impervious to mud and water and that kids can put on and take off by themselves? Yeah, well in addition to a super-cute, special-order, altered-to-fit Gymboree sun hat with an extra-wide brim and an entire pair of purple crocs that disappeared without a trace just before our family vacation, Sistah A has now lost another croc. Just one, but one is the same as two when you need a pair.

You're now thinking, Just go down to the store and buy another cheap set. Unfortunately, it's not that easy. See, to borrow from Flannery O'Connor, a good croc is hard to find. An inexpensive one, that is. For 30 bucks I could buy anything I wanted, but the affordable knock-offs that look like the real thing are sold out practically the minute they hit the big box racks. And this time of year? Forget it.

Which is what I should do. But I have to mourn a bit longer. And hasten to say that I did not go down without a fight. I cross-examined both suspects extensively, to my increasing frustration. (See below)

Me: Where's Sistah A's croc?
N-boy: I think it's somewhere around the sandbox.
Me: I looked. It's not there.
N-boy: It's buried deep.

After a solid 10 minutes of fruitless digging and raking in the aforementioned sandbox, during which Sistah A changed her burying story 5 times, I gave up on that locale. By now the missing article was rumored to be lost in the woods. As we walked the path, looking from side to side, Sistah A told me that it was underground somewhere, that someone else had found it and dragged it off, that it was down in a deep hole, and that it was also in a different part of the yard. Right.

Part of the problem is that the trail is cold; this thing has been missing for 2 weeks. Which allows N-boy to let his imagination run wild, too, helpfully suggesting various scenarios such as the shoe flying off Sistah A's foot while she was running fast or Sistah A putting the shoe down a mole hole. One minute he's seen her do it; the next minute it's just hearsay.

After sifting through the leaf mulch in the garden and declining N-boy's suggestion of searching the driveway, I stomped inside, exasperated.

Let the girl go barefoot all winter long. That's what she wants anyway. Not that this would help a thing, I'm afraid. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree: my genes have doomed the poor girl to a life of losing things. Lo siento. Lo siento mucho, mi preciosa manzanita.

Fick-oh-Feating

That's what Sistah A calls going around to neighbors' houses on Halloween, ringing the doorbell, and asking for candy. Here are the excited participants from our house:

Breath for the Bones: Chapter 5

In my childhood household, imagination was a valued trait.  Perhaps that is why I don't find it difficult to accept author Luci Shaw's idea, as discussed in her chapter, "Celebrating Imagination," that it can be a holy and edifying pursuit to use our God-given mental faculties to "create or fantasize or invent that which has never before had reality; in other words, to originate new realities, at least in our minds" (Shaw, p. 66, emphasis in the original). In fact, as Christians we should cultivate our ability to see

            "through, beyond, the flat window glass of dailiness, with its dust and fingerprints and
            uneven reflections, to the three-dimensional landscape on the outside, with its movement
            and light and shadow, its color and contour and texture, its nearness and distance, its
            changes of weather and season.  We must see through surface experience and phenomena
            to their true reality and significance." (p. 69, emphasis in the original)

This "seeing through" certainly applies to our interaction with Scripture.  In fact, the use of imagination is woven through Scripture itself.  Consider the passage from 1 Corinthians where none other than the Apostle Paul himself employs lively metaphor to underscore the importance of every member of Christ's body: "If the whole body were an eye, where would the sense of hearing be?  And if the whole body were an ear, where would the sense of smell be?"  (1 Cor. 12:17)

If I use my own imagination to build a mental picture of his words, I feel achuckle rising to greet the inner vision: a great, glistening eye, veined and lidless, rolling around, getting dust on its delicate cornea--seeing, yes, but for what benefit? And upside-down, at that. Or a huge ear, curled like a seashell, but empty at the center, with no brain to funnel sounds to.  Surely this drives home, like no purely factual statement could, the necessity of the church's functioning as a whole, working for the common good rather than going it alone.

For years my mother has spellbound Sunday school classes of children and adults alike with her invitations to enter the stories of the Bible with all the senses of our imagination.  She would urge her listeners to stop and savor the sights, sounds, smells, and textures that the participants in the Biblical narrative must have experienced so long ago.  "Imagine," she would say, "the miles you've walked to hear this preacher Jesus.  Your feet ache, but the crowd in the house is standing room only.  Feel the scratchy wall at your back, the press of bodies on all sides.  Hear the breathing of your all-too-close neighbors underlying the hush in the room as each person strains to catch the Rabbi's every word.  You crane your neck, listening intently.  Then you hear something else, a sort of digging, scratching noise from above.  Is that dust drifting down in the stuffy air and landing on Jesus head?  Somebody sneezes. . ." (cf Luke 5:17-26)

I believe imagination builds faith as it helps us more fully experience God's truth.  Shaw writes, "If our imaginations are broadened enough, something that seems unbelievable to us can seem possible; and we can come to our prayers expectantly" (p. 71).  After all, anything is possible with our creative, imagining-into-being God.  Our job is to believe it.

Family Night

Hubby and I decided to make Friday evenings our family night. We kicked off our tradition last week with "Mexican Night," a quick trip to our southerly neighbor, on the cheap, no passports necessary. It was the most fun we'd all had together in I don't know how long.

Making the pinata

Drying the pinata with the food dehydrator; posing with the finished product

Kids vs. pinata (we couldn't break it with the stick after 15 minutes of trying so we finally ripped it apart.)


Salsa with dad

Latin Queenie: Mom, is that you?


Caballero Uno

Caballero Dos

Two Recommendations

--When it comes to herbal remedies, I admit that I'm somewhat of a skeptic. But after our family suffered through 4 colds in 5 weeks (and it was still October), I was desperate. Last year my cousin R had recommended elderbery extract as an immune booster. After a little research, I decided it was worth a try. I plunked down far too much cash at the natural foods store for a tiny bottle, but hey--I had to survive the winter somehow, right? Although I wasn't too hopeful that this was the way.

Now, however, I'm a believer. Here's why: Saturday night N-boy was complaining that he was tired and cold (very unusual utterances for that child.) He was sporting the reddened eyes with dark circles underneath that could only mean one thing: the onset of yet another cold. Sunday morning he felt warm to the touch and cried and whined about everything (less uncommon but still unmistakable signs of impending illness.) I dosed him and with the elderberry stuff both Saturday and Sunday. By Sunday evening the kid who gets every single grippe that comes his way was running around, chattering nonstop, right as rain. I went online and bought two more bottles of elderberry. Which, by the way, has actually been proven to prevent colds and flu. I just didn't believe it until I saw it with my own two eyes.

--Even before my first baby was born, people were heartily recommending various child-rearing systems and their accompanying books. Being an earnest first-time parent, I willingly read them all. By the time N-boy was two, however, I thought I was going to scream if anyone else ever told me that they had found "THE RIGHT WAY" to raise kids--because none of them worked well for me.

So it was with great dubiousness that I opened the pages of Love and Logic Magic for Early Childhood late this summer. I figured I'd just read a bit here and there before literally dumping it into the trash with other discarded manuals that I just couldn't even bear to pass on. Needless to say, I was astonished to find myself drawn in, feeling hopeful, even laughing with the methods described on the pages. The authors' premise is that we can win our kids' hearts and minds with empathy and use simple, calmly-delivered enforceable statements to help them experience logical, real-world consequences and learn to think for themselves.

Sound too good to be true? I thought so, too. But as Hubby and I took a month-long class about the Love and Logic way (it's applicable to kids of all ages, by the way) and began to put some of these things into practice, it has started to look more like reality. In other words, it works for us and for our children. More importantly, the system (I use that term loosely) offers me a friendly and creative vision for how I actually want to be around my kids instead of beating me over the head with "You must do it this way or your kids will turn out bad!"

Anyway, after my initially traumatic experiences, I feel a bit hesitant to talk up yet another method too much (don't want to do what other well-meaning folks did to me!) but it's so much fun that I figured I'd at least mention it as something to look into if anyone is interested.

Swift

After all those years of living in Hawaii, daylight savings is just not on my radar screen.  This time around I'm doing much better since I actually thought of it before it happened.  Well, sort of.  The truth is that Hubby reminded me the other day at dinner.  I groused about how early it will get dark and how much I dread that.  Then, thinking of the several times the time change has caused us to be late to church, I added another brilliant observation: "And it's on Sunday again!"