December blew in today to make the last few leaves of autumn spin around in circles. Just in time. For the last few days of November had seemed like August. Its funny how things change so fast here in Rochester, by the big lake with its stange winds.
A few weeks ago it rained for days and driving was like being on a boat. Streets were rivers and intersections were rapids. I grew sea sick of soggy socks and wondered if I had in fact moved to the city of Seatle, not Rochester. Then one afternoon the the clouds disappeared like marshmellows in hot chocolate and the sun shown as if for the first time. It all happened so quickly. For days the city had been like an untouched coloring book and I had walked in its pages of black and white, feeling grey. When suddenly a few strokes of orangish red appeared in the space above me. Then pink. Then blue. A blue I had never seen, or more likely, forgetten. Other hues appeared and as I looked all around me, I blinked my eyes in wonder as the blank spaces where given meaning. Puddles became mirrors reflecting greens, blues, browns, and yellows. Buildings seemed to shine and people, glow, as they flooded the streets to watch the sky being colored, to watch God play with his crayons.
It was a moment of creation, or recreation. Things that had not been, became.
Winter is coming and this year I want to think of it's grey as God outlining a new page of his coloring book, his story that we are in, so as to dazzle us with colors in spring, to recreate earth again so we don't forget that He made this place and us.
"And us." This is easy for me to forget. My life for a moment has appeared to be a blank page. I've been wondering at its meaning, struggling with its greatness (as I mentioned before). This is my winter season and for reasons only the snow maker knows, I need it. And I accept it for that reason. And in the mean time, while I wait for spring, I am warmed with the colors of others.
12.01.2006
11.16.2006
arguing with greatness
"From glory to glory." That's somewhere in the Bible or in a hymn or something, right? I'm not sure what it really means, but I know what I want it to mean. I want it to mean that we are made of the same stuff God is. I believe that when God turned the stars on and filled the oceans, he also made us, and in us, he put a little bit of Himself in. His glory that is. So that when we communicate (God and us), we communicate from Glory to glory (or glory to Glory).
I know that His glory is in me. I know it is, because sometimes it shines out. I've seen it in other people too. But recently I have hidden it. I'm still trying to figure out why, but an idea I found in John Steinbeck's "East of Eden" is helping me understand it. In the story a father desribes his son as "arguing with greatness". He sees in his son "a drive and fear, an advance and a retreat."
I am retreating... I avoid conversations. I don't return my friends phone calls. I've traded running, reading, and writing for video games. I've neglected my family and forgotten my goals. Why? I don't want to be great. I don't want the responsiblity, the pressure. I'm afraid. Afraid that maybe there isn't enough glory in me, that its all too big for me.
So I hide, close my eyes, and ignore all that I love. It doesn't make any sense. I'm made of glorious stuff. We are all made of it. So why do I argue with it? Why am I afraid? I don't know.
"There’s a fire burning inside me, makes the lame walk and the blind to see. Here I am wandering on what I should be. The old earth, the moon, the sun; some wings to rise the dawn" (Stephen Delopoulos).
I know that His glory is in me. I know it is, because sometimes it shines out. I've seen it in other people too. But recently I have hidden it. I'm still trying to figure out why, but an idea I found in John Steinbeck's "East of Eden" is helping me understand it. In the story a father desribes his son as "arguing with greatness". He sees in his son "a drive and fear, an advance and a retreat."
I am retreating... I avoid conversations. I don't return my friends phone calls. I've traded running, reading, and writing for video games. I've neglected my family and forgotten my goals. Why? I don't want to be great. I don't want the responsiblity, the pressure. I'm afraid. Afraid that maybe there isn't enough glory in me, that its all too big for me.
So I hide, close my eyes, and ignore all that I love. It doesn't make any sense. I'm made of glorious stuff. We are all made of it. So why do I argue with it? Why am I afraid? I don't know.
"There’s a fire burning inside me, makes the lame walk and the blind to see. Here I am wandering on what I should be. The old earth, the moon, the sun; some wings to rise the dawn" (Stephen Delopoulos).
9.09.2006
tastes like burnt popcorn
Starbucks has introduced me to the world of coffee tasting. I'm new to it, but I am learning. They say you don't drink coffee just for the caffeine. A that it's ok just the way it is, that you don't need cream and ten packs of raw sugar. They also say that some coffees actually taste different from others. A diversity of aroma, acidity, body, and flavor.
The first step in coffee tasting is fun, yet silly to observers. Smell your coffee. It's a good idea to swirl your cup a little, to aerate the coffee, releasing the wonderful nose candy. I'm not sure if this really helps, but it makes you feel like your drinking wine. After you sniff your joe, slurp it. They say slurp so you splash your tongue, sprinkling all of your taste buds. I say slurp so you don't burn your tongue. A swollen tongue can dramatically alter your coffee tasting experience. Most of your descriptions will be "smoky and a little spicy". Plus you won't taste anything the rest of the week. The last two steps include locating the concentration of flavor on your tongue and then describing the taste.
They give you some helpful terms to describe the taste. Nice words like, "Intense, elegant, clean, caramelly." I translated a few… "Earthy"…tastes like dirt. "Herbal"…tastes like wet grass. "Smoky"…tastes like burnt popcorn.
They also offer a few hints in helping you realize the variety flavor. One is food pairing. Often a pastry can brighten a coffee's unique taste. A cinnamon role can bring out the spice in Sumatra. I just think it's a good idea because cinnamon roles taste good, so good that you forget the dirt taste of coffee.
Sometimes, they say, it can be helpful to compare two blends of coffee together in order to taste the differences. Makes sense to me, worse coffee makes bad coffee seem good.
I have to admit, I'm a little cynical, but also equally interesting, in coffee tasting. Sometimes I wonder if I'm really getting it or if my imagination is just getting better. Either way, this experience has caused me to wonder…
If drinking coffee slowly and analytically can make dirt taste good, or at least interesting, than how would sweeter and more fulfilling foods taste if I really tasted them deeply? Anyone up for a chocolate milkshake tasting? A shrimp tasting? A pizza tasting?
Or even more importantly, what if I tasted life like I do coffee? I think coffee tasting is a metaphor for life, and it's not just the cup that you are given that decides the flavor, it's the way you drink it as well.
Slow down. Take pictures. Journal. Tell stories. Find the beauty in your situation. See the good in people. "...live deep and suck out all the marrow of life" (Thoreau, Walden).
The first step in coffee tasting is fun, yet silly to observers. Smell your coffee. It's a good idea to swirl your cup a little, to aerate the coffee, releasing the wonderful nose candy. I'm not sure if this really helps, but it makes you feel like your drinking wine. After you sniff your joe, slurp it. They say slurp so you splash your tongue, sprinkling all of your taste buds. I say slurp so you don't burn your tongue. A swollen tongue can dramatically alter your coffee tasting experience. Most of your descriptions will be "smoky and a little spicy". Plus you won't taste anything the rest of the week. The last two steps include locating the concentration of flavor on your tongue and then describing the taste.
They give you some helpful terms to describe the taste. Nice words like, "Intense, elegant, clean, caramelly." I translated a few… "Earthy"…tastes like dirt. "Herbal"…tastes like wet grass. "Smoky"…tastes like burnt popcorn.
They also offer a few hints in helping you realize the variety flavor. One is food pairing. Often a pastry can brighten a coffee's unique taste. A cinnamon role can bring out the spice in Sumatra. I just think it's a good idea because cinnamon roles taste good, so good that you forget the dirt taste of coffee.
Sometimes, they say, it can be helpful to compare two blends of coffee together in order to taste the differences. Makes sense to me, worse coffee makes bad coffee seem good.
I have to admit, I'm a little cynical, but also equally interesting, in coffee tasting. Sometimes I wonder if I'm really getting it or if my imagination is just getting better. Either way, this experience has caused me to wonder…
If drinking coffee slowly and analytically can make dirt taste good, or at least interesting, than how would sweeter and more fulfilling foods taste if I really tasted them deeply? Anyone up for a chocolate milkshake tasting? A shrimp tasting? A pizza tasting?
Or even more importantly, what if I tasted life like I do coffee? I think coffee tasting is a metaphor for life, and it's not just the cup that you are given that decides the flavor, it's the way you drink it as well.
Slow down. Take pictures. Journal. Tell stories. Find the beauty in your situation. See the good in people. "...live deep and suck out all the marrow of life" (Thoreau, Walden).
9.07.2006
goodbyes are not for good
I wore my favorite hat Monday. My star hat. Its kaki cloth is pealing off the white plastic bill from almost ten years of wear and a few too many washings. I don’t wear it much because it’s endangered. But this was a special day. I was going to Mayberry (where they taped the Andy Griffin show) with the Dumont’s.
I’ve only known Tim and Angela Dumont since January, but it seems like years. They are the kind of friends that feel like family, because they are a family that knows no stranger. As a stranger they invited me into their humble, rented home*, served me homemade Chinese food from heaven, listened to my story (and told their own), and trusted me with their kids.
Tim and Ange have three kids. They are on a family planning system modeled after rabbits so they eventually will own their own school bus (just kidding dude). They home school too and I love them for that. Noah, Amber, and Claire are my three favorite people in North Carolina. While we walked the streets of Mayberry, we called the crosswalk stop signals, “high-five signs” and slapped each others hands until it was time to cross the street. Later that night, after we shared my last meal in NC (we made my mom’s famous “frito pie” and watched Mary Poppins), we played ring around the roses. Then I spun them in circles, one at a time, until I fell over dizzy or until one of them was hit by their spinning sibling’s foot. After one of them would cry or I regained consciousness, we’d do it again. At bedtime I read them The Potty Book, an inspiring and well illustrated book about going “wee-wee” and “poo-poo”. Recommend it.
Then they gave me hugs.
Then Tim and Angela and I took turns telling each other why we would miss each other (a good habit even when one is not saying goodbye).
Then they gave me hugs.
Then the kids gave me more hugs.
It’s good to wear a hat when you say goodbye. Incase you cry, that is.
I pulled my star hat down over my face because my heart was overflowing, leaking love out my eyes.
Amber kept giving me hugs and saying goodbye. I could feel her tiny little beating heart against my chest. She told me, “I’m gonna miss you this much”, extending her arms almost as far as they could reach.
This is the love I drove away waving at, wondering, “Why am I doing this?”
But goodbyes are not for good. And missing something means you have something worth missing. Maybe I’ll move back to NC someday, maybe not. I know I will write, visit, and never forget, the crazy and amazing Dumonts. They were to me grace. They are to me family.
*Tim and Ange have little, but so much...in a place where many have so much more, but far less. They have shown me that it is better to give, than to receive. What they have they’ve shared with me. I’m am greatly indebted.
I’ve only known Tim and Angela Dumont since January, but it seems like years. They are the kind of friends that feel like family, because they are a family that knows no stranger. As a stranger they invited me into their humble, rented home*, served me homemade Chinese food from heaven, listened to my story (and told their own), and trusted me with their kids.
Tim and Ange have three kids. They are on a family planning system modeled after rabbits so they eventually will own their own school bus (just kidding dude). They home school too and I love them for that. Noah, Amber, and Claire are my three favorite people in North Carolina. While we walked the streets of Mayberry, we called the crosswalk stop signals, “high-five signs” and slapped each others hands until it was time to cross the street. Later that night, after we shared my last meal in NC (we made my mom’s famous “frito pie” and watched Mary Poppins), we played ring around the roses. Then I spun them in circles, one at a time, until I fell over dizzy or until one of them was hit by their spinning sibling’s foot. After one of them would cry or I regained consciousness, we’d do it again. At bedtime I read them The Potty Book, an inspiring and well illustrated book about going “wee-wee” and “poo-poo”. Recommend it.
Then they gave me hugs.
Then Tim and Angela and I took turns telling each other why we would miss each other (a good habit even when one is not saying goodbye).
Then they gave me hugs.
Then the kids gave me more hugs.
It’s good to wear a hat when you say goodbye. Incase you cry, that is.
I pulled my star hat down over my face because my heart was overflowing, leaking love out my eyes.
Amber kept giving me hugs and saying goodbye. I could feel her tiny little beating heart against my chest. She told me, “I’m gonna miss you this much”, extending her arms almost as far as they could reach.
This is the love I drove away waving at, wondering, “Why am I doing this?”
But goodbyes are not for good. And missing something means you have something worth missing. Maybe I’ll move back to NC someday, maybe not. I know I will write, visit, and never forget, the crazy and amazing Dumonts. They were to me grace. They are to me family.
*Tim and Ange have little, but so much...in a place where many have so much more, but far less. They have shown me that it is better to give, than to receive. What they have they’ve shared with me. I’m am greatly indebted.
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