Do the words of today's title sound familiar? As a child attending the Methodist church with my grandmother, I said these words during the liturgy every week; I confess that I don't remember where they were in the liturgy. And this morning I have a house full of company and will not take the time to research properly this prayer, which goes: May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.
Musician Fernando Ortega set these words to his own music, and I was playing that CD in the car when I went to the farmers' market this morning. Driving is not good for my meditations or my words--how quickly the profanity surfaces when another driver does something rude or stupid or I hit yet another car-engulfing pothole. So, for my morning prayer, I sang along with Fernando, hoping that singing such a prayer would get in the way of my cussing. And I did not cuss while driving this morning; this could be due to the prayer or to the fact that no other driver did anything rude or stupid. I won't waste energy trying to figure that out--I'm just happy to have run my errands minus the bad mood and the ugly words.
I don't think I cussed with any regularity until I was living in another country. I adapted well to my life there and did good work for that two-year teaching assignment in Ajloun, Jordan. But of course the culture shock sets in sooner or later, and it hit me in the form of sever depression about six months into the assignment. Also, it started leaking out in dribs and drabs of anger and frustration. I had tried unsuccessfully to tune the piano at the school where I taught, and it did not want to hold a tune. And at some point, for the first time in my life, I said, "Fuck" to an empty room. And I have to say, it felt very good. I realized then that there's a perfectly good reason for cusswords.
I do believe that there are appropriate times to swear, but they are few and far between. Sometimes, swearing is actually a form of prayer--and I know some people will take great offense at my saying that, but if the Holy Spirit interprets our moans and sighs into the prayers they truly are, then I think she does the same for the swearing that is actually an expression of panic or pain or fear.
Three reasons cussing is not a good thing: 1) Usually it's used in a harmful way, in anger toward other people, and anger is rarely the best or most constructive response. 2) It becomes a habit way too easily. I really have trouble not swearing now; it's a habit I'm not proud of and try to put the brakes on. 3) It's death to creativity. I live in the part of town where "fuck" stands in for just about every part of speech. People who swear a lot are not developing creative ways of expressing themselves. In fact, I believe that profanity shrinks the vocabulary. Rather than coming up with a truly accurate description of your feelings, hopes, frustrations, and ideas, you just utter a few raw words, which shuts down the creative process.
Today, we hope to drive to Warren Dunes State Park and hang out on the beach and climb the dunes. This will involve driving on interstates on a Sunday, dealing with parking lots, having uncomfortable incidents with sand, wind, and possibly other people, and being grandparents in person, which we are rarely able to do. There's some stress in all of that--even good events bring stress. And so my prayer today is, truly: May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer. Amen.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Friday, June 20, 2014
Too Serious?
I'm enjoying a book by Deborah Alun-Jones: The Wry Romance of the Literary Rectory. She explores various old rectories throughout England and the poets and writers who lived in them. It's well written, entertaining to read, and we learn a bit about writers such as Alfred Tennyson, Dorothy L. Sayers, and George Herbert.
Some writers sought solitary, romantic places in which to write; some were rectors as well as writers; some were sons or daughters of rectors. Most of the homes they lived in were in remote places, off in the countryside; they were drafty and damp and no-frills, in some cases without running water or reliable heat. Yet they were graced by lush landscapes and gardens in which to have tea or to otherwise party with friends.
I confess that at times I become irritated with a particular writer or poet who drags a wife and kids off to the country, to a pretty hard life, so that he can write in the kind of space he wants. Having written the better part of two novels on the commuter train to and from Chicago, I can't help but wonder if sometimes we take ourselves too seriously as artists. I can write only in a garden--really? I must make other family members suffer isolation and drudgery because I need a quiet study miles from city confusion--really?
Are we too serious about ourselves sometimes? Are we uncreative about our creativity? If I'm truly creative, then I should be able to make any number of situations work for me. And, as a person of faith of the fairly basic sort, I believe that love for spouse, children, and people in general sometimes makes demands of me that render the creative work more challenging.
We folks of the Judeo-Christian persuasion might imagine David the shepherd lounging out in the pasture, blissfully writing psalms. But have you ever spent much time in a pasture? Lumpy earth, animal dung, bugs, rain--at times the outdoors is almost too distracting for me to do much interior exploration. The shepherd psalmist might have imagined a clean, dry room with a flat surface, such as an ordinary table, as the perfect place to write. Actually, back in David's time, I think they simply composed and memorized and passed along by speaking and singing and memorizing some more. An artist simply did what he needed to do.
Some writers sought solitary, romantic places in which to write; some were rectors as well as writers; some were sons or daughters of rectors. Most of the homes they lived in were in remote places, off in the countryside; they were drafty and damp and no-frills, in some cases without running water or reliable heat. Yet they were graced by lush landscapes and gardens in which to have tea or to otherwise party with friends.
I confess that at times I become irritated with a particular writer or poet who drags a wife and kids off to the country, to a pretty hard life, so that he can write in the kind of space he wants. Having written the better part of two novels on the commuter train to and from Chicago, I can't help but wonder if sometimes we take ourselves too seriously as artists. I can write only in a garden--really? I must make other family members suffer isolation and drudgery because I need a quiet study miles from city confusion--really?
Are we too serious about ourselves sometimes? Are we uncreative about our creativity? If I'm truly creative, then I should be able to make any number of situations work for me. And, as a person of faith of the fairly basic sort, I believe that love for spouse, children, and people in general sometimes makes demands of me that render the creative work more challenging.
We folks of the Judeo-Christian persuasion might imagine David the shepherd lounging out in the pasture, blissfully writing psalms. But have you ever spent much time in a pasture? Lumpy earth, animal dung, bugs, rain--at times the outdoors is almost too distracting for me to do much interior exploration. The shepherd psalmist might have imagined a clean, dry room with a flat surface, such as an ordinary table, as the perfect place to write. Actually, back in David's time, I think they simply composed and memorized and passed along by speaking and singing and memorizing some more. An artist simply did what he needed to do.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Travel Graces
Maybe we notice more, when traveling, what goes wrong and what goes well. For a trip such as the one I just took, alone on a walk in England, because I packed light there was less to keep track of. A tour company had made all the lodging arrangements. For the most part I forgot about ordinary life back home. All of this freed me to pay attention to the day's steps and missteps.
My suitcase arrived with the top of the pull handle broken off and missing completely. This meant I could pull it by one of the upright bars, and fortunately it had four wheels so I could pull it without tilting, which is pretty difficult without that cross bar on the pull handle.
On the second day of walking, the rain made it impossible to walk the full distance. I opted, about a third of the way into the journey, not to return to muddy field and forest tracks (my boots, socks, and clothing were completely waterlogged) but to walk on the road. Roads in the Cotswolds are narrow, curve a lot, and have no shoulders, so this was not a safe option, but I hoped perhaps someone would take pity on me, and someone did; Neville picked me up and drove me the five miles (by road, not by walking track) to Broadway, the town of my next lodging. He didn't live there but made the excuse that he needed to go to a shop there. Also, he needed to pick up his ironing. So I dripped all over his lovely car while he parked in front a house and a young women brought out his ironed clothing and waved at me. When he dropped me off in Broadway, I said, "Neville, you are today's angel" and he replied, "Well, I think you're a resolute young woman."
That first rainy day I discovered that I should have brought my hiking boots; the soles of my every-day boots would not navigate muddy terrain. So, in Broadway, once I'd checked in, gave the housemaid my soggy clothes to wash and dry--so grateful that service was available for a fee--I walked around town, not daring to hope I'd find a shoe store. Yet, one block from my B&B I found "Pairs," which sold hiking boots. The first pair I tried on were perfect, and the price was decent. So, problem solved. I must stress that not every town I stayed in had a shoe store, or not one so obviously placed.
My third night of the trip, I was staying in Chipping Campden, one of my favorite villages of the six on my route. But by that evening I had walked probably nine miles, was very tired, and felt a bit lonely for the first time since arriving in England. I decided to walk across the street to another inn, in which there was an Indian restaurant that did carry-out orders. While I waited for my order, sitting at one end of the room with my back to the other diners, I noticed a gentleman sitting down by himself over to my left, just a few feet away.
I will shorten this: the man was the British actor Mark Williams, who has many screen credits but would be best known by Americans as the Weasleys' father in Harry Potter, as one of the bumbling dog thieves in 101 Dalmatians, and most recently as the new Father Brown of the BBC series that's based on the mysteries of G.K. Chesterton. I've become a Father Brown fan, and of all the actors to see in person, Mr. Williams was the perfect one on that evening of a very long day. I did stop at his table, on my way out the door with my food, and asked if he was Mark Williams, and he answered in the affirmative, and we had a brief, friendly exchange during which I did not act like an idiot fan. However, I grinned like an idiot all the way back to my room and didn't even mind that the coleslaw had been packaged in a plastic bag, forcing me to eat it with my fingers. Happy, happy.
Every day I walked--and that was five out of the six days (the fifth day I took the bus so that I would have plenty of time to hang out at the Cotswold Falconry Centre in the next town--a good decision)--every day I walked, something went wrong with the directions. Either the route notes were not clear or were inaccurate or I read them incorrectly or a landowner had messed with the markings so that hikers would stop walking across his property. Every day I got lost. And every day I managed to find my way. If you have a sense of direction, you cannot appreciate what a grace this was. I have absolutely no sense of direction, and the fact that I did not panic but simply solved problems and invented a new way--this is one of the graces of the trip I appreciate most.
Another grace: I cussed maybe twice on the whole trip. Anyone close to me understands that this was a freakin' miracle.
.
My suitcase arrived with the top of the pull handle broken off and missing completely. This meant I could pull it by one of the upright bars, and fortunately it had four wheels so I could pull it without tilting, which is pretty difficult without that cross bar on the pull handle.
On the second day of walking, the rain made it impossible to walk the full distance. I opted, about a third of the way into the journey, not to return to muddy field and forest tracks (my boots, socks, and clothing were completely waterlogged) but to walk on the road. Roads in the Cotswolds are narrow, curve a lot, and have no shoulders, so this was not a safe option, but I hoped perhaps someone would take pity on me, and someone did; Neville picked me up and drove me the five miles (by road, not by walking track) to Broadway, the town of my next lodging. He didn't live there but made the excuse that he needed to go to a shop there. Also, he needed to pick up his ironing. So I dripped all over his lovely car while he parked in front a house and a young women brought out his ironed clothing and waved at me. When he dropped me off in Broadway, I said, "Neville, you are today's angel" and he replied, "Well, I think you're a resolute young woman."
That first rainy day I discovered that I should have brought my hiking boots; the soles of my every-day boots would not navigate muddy terrain. So, in Broadway, once I'd checked in, gave the housemaid my soggy clothes to wash and dry--so grateful that service was available for a fee--I walked around town, not daring to hope I'd find a shoe store. Yet, one block from my B&B I found "Pairs," which sold hiking boots. The first pair I tried on were perfect, and the price was decent. So, problem solved. I must stress that not every town I stayed in had a shoe store, or not one so obviously placed.
My third night of the trip, I was staying in Chipping Campden, one of my favorite villages of the six on my route. But by that evening I had walked probably nine miles, was very tired, and felt a bit lonely for the first time since arriving in England. I decided to walk across the street to another inn, in which there was an Indian restaurant that did carry-out orders. While I waited for my order, sitting at one end of the room with my back to the other diners, I noticed a gentleman sitting down by himself over to my left, just a few feet away.
I will shorten this: the man was the British actor Mark Williams, who has many screen credits but would be best known by Americans as the Weasleys' father in Harry Potter, as one of the bumbling dog thieves in 101 Dalmatians, and most recently as the new Father Brown of the BBC series that's based on the mysteries of G.K. Chesterton. I've become a Father Brown fan, and of all the actors to see in person, Mr. Williams was the perfect one on that evening of a very long day. I did stop at his table, on my way out the door with my food, and asked if he was Mark Williams, and he answered in the affirmative, and we had a brief, friendly exchange during which I did not act like an idiot fan. However, I grinned like an idiot all the way back to my room and didn't even mind that the coleslaw had been packaged in a plastic bag, forcing me to eat it with my fingers. Happy, happy.
Every day I walked--and that was five out of the six days (the fifth day I took the bus so that I would have plenty of time to hang out at the Cotswold Falconry Centre in the next town--a good decision)--every day I walked, something went wrong with the directions. Either the route notes were not clear or were inaccurate or I read them incorrectly or a landowner had messed with the markings so that hikers would stop walking across his property. Every day I got lost. And every day I managed to find my way. If you have a sense of direction, you cannot appreciate what a grace this was. I have absolutely no sense of direction, and the fact that I did not panic but simply solved problems and invented a new way--this is one of the graces of the trip I appreciate most.
Another grace: I cussed maybe twice on the whole trip. Anyone close to me understands that this was a freakin' miracle.
.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Back Home
First of all, I had a truly wonderful time in England. No regrets, no bad memories, even though I was rained out one day and had a close encounter with mud on another. Little graces along the way--a topic for probably Tuesday's post. The point is, this was a good journey, one I planned and saved for and built up courage for and followed through on.
And came home from. I did return home, and when it was time to return, that's what I wanted to do. I had feared, just a bit, that some little gap or wound in my soul would find its answer or comfort off in England--in the beauty and quiet and fields, pathways, horses, cows, sheep, dogs, birds. What if I didn't want to leave? What if my personal sorrows wanted to stay for awhile and find their solace? What if I would desire to walk to a certain tea shop every day for the next five years, just to have tea and scones and sit in the quiet and talk with myself? What if that unfinished part of me, that unspoken-to part, would determine to make a new place and nurture a new ritual?
I am determined, now, to find a recipe for true English scones because I've not had anything here in the USA quite like the mile-high crusty wonders that call over to the little dishes of clotted cream and jam, saying, "Here I am!" I will find that recipe. I might even learn to make clotted cream, although this would work against my labors three afternoons a week at Southport Fitness. Still, for a rainy day or a sad afternoon . . .
I am determined to walk more here at home, now that it's clear that a few more miles of movement each day will not tear apart my arthritic joints. There's our glorious 18-mile lakefront. There are neighborhoods and bike/walking paths, parks and preserves. I'll make better use of them, and probably will bring my husband along.
It's good to be home. I brought England's weather with me, and the rainy week has turned our yard and garden spot into near jungle. I've walked in the rain to work, not minding it so much now that I have walked miles in downpour in a country where that is not considered an odd thing, just something you must do on some days. I sit on the back yard swing and enjoy the begonias and dalias and impatiens--their vivid blotches of color against the stone tile and foliage of many greens. I have returned to a place that I already loved, and so I love it still.
The stories we hear--or see in movie form--about people going off to find themselves, traveling in search of love and meaning, trouble me. It took me a few decades, but I understand that, at least for myself, purpose and happiness originate in my interior world. Other people and places cannot give me what I do not already experience. I could go on this journey and love the going because the home had already been built in soul and psyche. If I was content on the journey, it was mainly because the contentment had already developed in my thoughts and spiritual habits. If I was resourceful while walking, and able to solve problems and get lost and found again, I owed that grace to the habits that have been years in development--habits of hope, creativity, calm, and openness.
I highly recommend a walking trip, if you enjoy walking and would like a little adventure. But if you are desperate to find something that will change your life, I might recommend instead that you stay home and learn how to love home and uncover your true self in today's hours. And then in tomorrow's. The hardest work we do is the interior journey. It requires so much energy and courage and time that sometimes it is best done standing completely still.
And came home from. I did return home, and when it was time to return, that's what I wanted to do. I had feared, just a bit, that some little gap or wound in my soul would find its answer or comfort off in England--in the beauty and quiet and fields, pathways, horses, cows, sheep, dogs, birds. What if I didn't want to leave? What if my personal sorrows wanted to stay for awhile and find their solace? What if I would desire to walk to a certain tea shop every day for the next five years, just to have tea and scones and sit in the quiet and talk with myself? What if that unfinished part of me, that unspoken-to part, would determine to make a new place and nurture a new ritual?
I am determined, now, to find a recipe for true English scones because I've not had anything here in the USA quite like the mile-high crusty wonders that call over to the little dishes of clotted cream and jam, saying, "Here I am!" I will find that recipe. I might even learn to make clotted cream, although this would work against my labors three afternoons a week at Southport Fitness. Still, for a rainy day or a sad afternoon . . .
I am determined to walk more here at home, now that it's clear that a few more miles of movement each day will not tear apart my arthritic joints. There's our glorious 18-mile lakefront. There are neighborhoods and bike/walking paths, parks and preserves. I'll make better use of them, and probably will bring my husband along.
It's good to be home. I brought England's weather with me, and the rainy week has turned our yard and garden spot into near jungle. I've walked in the rain to work, not minding it so much now that I have walked miles in downpour in a country where that is not considered an odd thing, just something you must do on some days. I sit on the back yard swing and enjoy the begonias and dalias and impatiens--their vivid blotches of color against the stone tile and foliage of many greens. I have returned to a place that I already loved, and so I love it still.
The stories we hear--or see in movie form--about people going off to find themselves, traveling in search of love and meaning, trouble me. It took me a few decades, but I understand that, at least for myself, purpose and happiness originate in my interior world. Other people and places cannot give me what I do not already experience. I could go on this journey and love the going because the home had already been built in soul and psyche. If I was content on the journey, it was mainly because the contentment had already developed in my thoughts and spiritual habits. If I was resourceful while walking, and able to solve problems and get lost and found again, I owed that grace to the habits that have been years in development--habits of hope, creativity, calm, and openness.
I highly recommend a walking trip, if you enjoy walking and would like a little adventure. But if you are desperate to find something that will change your life, I might recommend instead that you stay home and learn how to love home and uncover your true self in today's hours. And then in tomorrow's. The hardest work we do is the interior journey. It requires so much energy and courage and time that sometimes it is best done standing completely still.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Scattered Thoughts about England
I'm trying to work at my day job at the moment, although, according to my body, it's about 11 p.m. Feeling a bit guilty about not posting at least one other time while on my walking trip in the Cotswolds. I'll have more to say about that when I'm better rested. For now, a list of impressions.
When the English say "hill," that is precisely what they mean.
There's no real American equivalent to clotted cream.
Maybe it's my imagination, but orange marmalade tastes good in England.
Compared to getting on and off buses in England, Chicago's a freakin' roller derby.
Sheep watch you ever so soberly as you walk straight toward them.
Sheep do not pose for the camera. By the time you've lifted it up to snap a shot, they have realized that they don't know you and have gone trotting away.
Sheep dung has no smell that I noticed. English cow shit smells just like American cow shit.
Wildflowers flutter everywhere, and even the intentional flowerbeds look exuberant and unruly in a gorgeous kind of way.
People in the English countryside really are friendly and helpful.
However, an outsider in a local pub feels that she's an outsider.
England is green because it rains so much.
A hard soaking rain is called a "wet" rain, as opposed to a less aggressive and more pleasant rain, I guess.
There are a lot of doves in England--fat, lovely, sonorous doves whose robust coos can sound downright intimidating.
"Kissing gate" can mean any of several designs.
The English take their dogs into shops, cafes, trains, buses--and no one seems to mind.
Lots of Labrador retrievers and various spaniels, and dog rescue is a big trend.
What the English call a walk, Americans call a hike. I discovered this use of understatement pretty much every day of "walking."
If you are about to fall in the mud, do not grab onto stinging nettle to save yourself. It's named that for a reason. In my case, the points of contact were weird and tingly for almost two days.
Until you have experienced mud in the English countryside, you have no idea what I'm talking about.
When the English say "hill," that is precisely what they mean.
There's no real American equivalent to clotted cream.
Maybe it's my imagination, but orange marmalade tastes good in England.
Compared to getting on and off buses in England, Chicago's a freakin' roller derby.
Sheep watch you ever so soberly as you walk straight toward them.
Sheep do not pose for the camera. By the time you've lifted it up to snap a shot, they have realized that they don't know you and have gone trotting away.
Sheep dung has no smell that I noticed. English cow shit smells just like American cow shit.
Wildflowers flutter everywhere, and even the intentional flowerbeds look exuberant and unruly in a gorgeous kind of way.
People in the English countryside really are friendly and helpful.
However, an outsider in a local pub feels that she's an outsider.
England is green because it rains so much.
A hard soaking rain is called a "wet" rain, as opposed to a less aggressive and more pleasant rain, I guess.
There are a lot of doves in England--fat, lovely, sonorous doves whose robust coos can sound downright intimidating.
"Kissing gate" can mean any of several designs.
The English take their dogs into shops, cafes, trains, buses--and no one seems to mind.
Lots of Labrador retrievers and various spaniels, and dog rescue is a big trend.
What the English call a walk, Americans call a hike. I discovered this use of understatement pretty much every day of "walking."
If you are about to fall in the mud, do not grab onto stinging nettle to save yourself. It's named that for a reason. In my case, the points of contact were weird and tingly for almost two days.
Until you have experienced mud in the English countryside, you have no idea what I'm talking about.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
First Walking Day
What an adventure. All day on the lookout for stiles, gates, footbridge, and waymarkers, not to mention "clear paths" across pastures. In this photo I have gone more than a quarter of the way. I am smiling because I am yet unaware that I have taken the wrong gate and thus have misdirected my journey. I will solve this later by climbing a steep hill because thank God the written directions include radio towers that are visible to
poor lost me.
Monday, June 2, 2014
No real writing because I don't care for screen keypads. Relaxing train ride to Cheltenham. Received a warm welcome from Rita, who with her husband runs Burlington House B and B. Photos of my comfy room. Walked miles this afternoon around town. Photographed with my camera so cannot upload to this device.
I must say, have concluded that I could eat clotted cream with a spoon every day. And probably will on this trip.
I must say, have concluded that I could eat clotted cream with a spoon every day. And probably will on this trip.
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