Present Perfect

I met my mother for the first time when she turned 60. 

Granted, I’d known her my whole life.  It was just that by the time I was 30 or so I mistakenly thought I had her figured out. 

I grew up knowing my mom as the provider of such things as advice, a listening ear, “emergency” nursing care, food, assurance—all those things that mothers seem to be natural at offering.  When I was a teenager, we connected over our favorite soap opera, which she faithfully taped and shared with her daughters after school.  In college, I would find myself dialing home for that famous medical advice, or with my recipe questions, or just to talk about whatever mundane thing had happened that week; she listened to it all.

As I became more “self actualized,” shall we say, I began to see my mother in a different light: as one who had never fully discovered her “niche” in life: not landing solidly in one career, having aspirations but not completely following through.  I longed to see her blossom into whatever was waiting to emerge.  I frequently wondered who Mom would’ve been if she hadn’t been, well…Mom.

As her 60^th birthday approached, I wanted to acknowledge my mother’s life in some way.  Knowing how she loves reminiscing, my sister and I solicited memories and pictures from her friends and family, to comprise a birthday book honoring the six decades of our mom’s life. 

Soon the replies came, but they were not at all what I had hoped for.   Where were the side-splitting funny stories?  The gut-wrenching griefs?  Where was the high drama of 60 years, of a life which had known major surgery at 15, romance in college, marriage and motherhood as a young woman, and the frequent relocation and obligations associated with being a pastor’s wife?

What we actually got were recollections of the most ordinary things imaginable: shower gifts, birthday cards, and tea breaks.  Jars left in a basement after moving.  Peas rolling down the side of her face while she was immobilized in her body cast.  Daily stuff.  Stuff like I always talked about with Mom—things that mattered only to me—and she would not only listen, but somehow she would actually seem interested.

As we compiled the stories and pictures, some patterns began to emerge.  Two different relatives expressed their gratitude at how my mom always remembered their children’s birthdays, especially when their own mothers had prematurely died. An uncle remembered Mom’s refusal to let a smoker enter our house, cancer stick alit.  Many others remembered the special tea she always made.  People knew my mother as babysitter, as conversationalist, as gracious host and companion—all the things she was—and still is.  I looked at the pictures of Mom holding her babies, her relative’s babies---anyone’s babies—and saw the genuine delight on her face. 

After awhile I began to realize the lesson for me in all of this: my mother wasn’t waiting to “find herself.”  She was living who she already is: a caregiver, a defender, a listener.  She was and is exactly who she has chosen to be.

Mom was delighted with her gift and continues to cherish it.  What I received from a simple three-ringed binder with plastic covered pages was the unexpected gift of seeing the woman I thought I already knew in a whole new light: as one who raised me, by example, to be exactly who I have chosen to be.

---

this apple, falling

and rolling over oceans

still knows its own tree

Eyes Off the Prize

"And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came..."


I grew up believing that this parable was a warning to be prepared in life. Reading it again today, I no longer agree with that interpretation.  Granted, the young women who are called “wise” did bring more lamp oil than those called “foolish.” But this alone is not what makes them wise. And the so-called foolish girls are not essentially unprepared.

What they have done is brought enough oil to last until the bridegroom is expected to make his appearance.  But—and here’s the catch—he is late. They must wait for his arrival, and because he is so delayed, everyone falls asleep—including those who have brought the extra oil. But still, it is not the oil running out that is the main issue. What happens next is crucial.

All the maids are told to arise and meet the bridegroom—they have waited all night, and he is now here. The moment has arrived. And what do half of these young women do when they learn that the time is now? They make the astonishing choice to run out and buy more oil.

One could argue that the more fortunate ones are cruel not to share what they have. But that is not the point. The bridegroom is here, now, and half of them go away, so they miss the very thing for which they have waited so long.

I think about London buses when I read this. Those little electronic arrival boards inside the bus stop, telling you when the next one will arrive. Or where such boards are lacking, one may send a text to the number on the sign and get an instant message with the same information. I used to take this as gospel word, trusting that if it said the #25 was coming in 8 minutes, then it would surely be here in 8 minutes. After awhile, I discovered how unreliable this can actually be. Sometimes, I would walk away from the stop, either to keep warm somewhere nearby or transact some quick business, believing I had plenty of time, only to watch an unexpected bus shoot past me, much to my dismay. I tested it by waiting for a bus that wasn’t supposed to arrive for about 15 or 20 minutes, only to discover that one would often come, unannounced, in around 5 minutes or less. It wasn’t foolproof, but in many cases it seemed the key was simply to stay at the stop, because the wait might not actually be as long as expected.

The reason I’m going into this detailed discussion of buses is that I think it reflects the central message of our parable tonight—that is, to watch and keep alert, for the very thing we seek may soon be before our eyes.

The foolish move was not running out of oil, but rather running away at the very moment when they had everything to gain by staying.  By fixating on that which was not essential, they missed the whole show.  Watch and be mindful, for you could very well end up missing your life in the process.

And don’t we see this all the time? How easy it is to miss what is right in front of us because we are focused on the peripheral, the nonessential—the distractions of life. And meanwhile flowers are opening, children are smiling, new friends are waiting to be met, opportunities are literally falling at our feet while we’re looking the other way. Or even walking or running the other way.

These virgins were foolish because they came to see the bridegroom and then refused to meet him. They missed the point. We risk doing the same when we ignore what God is handing to us on a platter. When we turn away from the presence of the one who is—and has always been in our midst, a breath and a prayer away. We risk sleepwalking through our whole lives, when all he wants for us is to have life abundant.

With one foot in the old church year and the other stepping into the new, we have yet another opportunity to stop, wake up, and notice who is here before our eyes. And who is here is the very one who promises that indeed, I am with you always, to the end of the age.

Overflowing

I am grateful for so much in my life.  Warm cats.  Sunshine in London.  My weekly radio show.  A computer in a newsroom somewhere in Harrow, which enables me to blog during the Great Internet Drought of November.  And the food and fellowship I am about to enjoy. 

A year ago, I couldn't see my way to a UK Visa--I knew I would find a way, but I couldn't see how at the time.  I was worried about paying rent.  Affording cat food (and people food, while we're at it).  I walked whenever I could to save a bus fare.  I accepted the kindness of strangers and friends.  In many ways, I've never felt so alone--and so loved.

My circumstances may have altered a bit since then, but the gratitude remains.  I'm relieved to have worries that look more like, why can't I find the wireless converter that I need?  Or, I can't believe I overcooked the pumpkin seeds.  They seem absolutely ludicrous compared to last year's troubles.

But one thing I've learned is that the perception of trouble--or gratitude--is all up to me.  I may have seen hardship, but in the midst of it there was always some great joy.  And there is always some annoyance amidst satisfaction as well.  We be people--that is how we roll.  :)

This Thanksgiving I am in love with my life, and can see a future unfolding before me that promises everything I've always wanted for myself.  I am missing my family's holiday celebration in Iowa City again, and cousins' children are growing older by the hour without my witnessing it.  Conversations are ensuing which will never be recreated and food and drink abound.  But I will peek into the festivities via the wonders of a little Skype window and taste that lovely gathering, even as I'm recovering from a feast celebrated with my new international grad school friends.  One opportunity lost; another arising.

As wind whips around outside on a particularly blustery day, I think of those who will occupy doorways and underpasses tonight.  I think of stray kitties not as fortunate as mine.  And people who truly feel they don't have a friend in the world.  I have never been that unlucky.  I have received much and have a lot to share.  I have seen so much of the world by age 41, it's ridiculous.  And I am almost never bored.

I could go on.  But I've a dinner to get to.  And so do you.


---
gratitude abounds
as my life keeps serving up
a feast for the soul

Surf's Down

I remember life before the internet. 

I remember it more clearly now because I've been "unplugged" at home for the last week, due to an unfortunate series of events around the departure of my flatmate.  His absence is welcome.  My internet's, not so much.

Aside from the obvious inconvenience of having to seek out libraries and campus computers just to conduct email business, or actually (God forbid!) open a cookbook to find a recipe, I suppose the biggest impact of an internet-free household is the shifting of my daily habits.  ITunes on shuffle instead of BBC radio streams in the morning.  Pre-recorded television episodes instead of web surfing in the evening.  The other night I actually opened a book to entertain myself.  Wonders never cease.

But there are annoyances like having to use paper maps and guidebooks to plan journeys, and then having no idea about weekend tube closures because I can't read my TFL update.  Or not being able to call a friend because the number only exists somewhere in the recesses of a message inbox.  Or missing out on posts about class assignments.  This is not amusing.

I'm reminded of my first call in rural Ohio, when the advent of internet access became my lifeline to the outside world.  ICQ chats kept me connected to my sister, X-files message boards made me some new friends, and an extended Enneagram surfing frenzy mystified my mind for about a week.  Without those connections and distractions, I may very well have gone crazy.  The girl who defiantly proclaimed she would never get an email account was now officially hooked. 

It makes me marvel at how I survived two years in Asia as a 22-year-old away from everything familiar, with no Skype calls or Facebook updates or photo sharing.  My only connection with the U.S. was premium rate phone calls and...wait for it...letter writing.

I don't have any desire to return to those pre-wired days.  No sentimental attachment to volumes of outdated printed encyclopedias or rushing home to check the tape on the answer machine. When I go home tonight with a new splitter cable and router box, I'll reconnect myself and never look back. 

But somewhere deep down inside lurks a girl who managed to live the first 29 years of her life unplugged.  She somehow kept informed, mobile, entertained, and connected, with no internet assistance whatsoever.  And I'm fortunate that in weeks like this one, that girl is creative enough to amuse herself, and still resourceful enough to read a street map.

---
cyber girl, unplugged
between her Mac and cookbook:
equal affection

32 Flavors

The Wheelie Bin Killer has been jailed for life.

I first heard this bizarre story on a Media Law class trip to the Old Bailey (London's central criminal court).  A 42-year-old woman is motivate by anger, jealousy, or some undetermined cause to drug and suffocate her lover, stashing his body in a wheelie bin (US translation: garbage can), which she then proceeds to store in her bedroom for 11 days until she is discovered by police.  The convicted murderer was quoted as saying that she'd measured her freezer but found it too small.  She will be serving a minimum of 17 years on a life sentence.

Aside from the macabre details of this case, hearing about it and others like it prompts me to ask the question, "What in God's name is wrong with people??"  What could possibly inspire someone to act in such a way?  And it goes well beyond the extreme example of murder.

Every day I see firsthand or hear about things that make me shudder.  The language we use with one another.  The way we treat those we claim to love.  The things we expect as entitlements while being unwilling to sacrifice ourselves.  The garbage blowing around the streets and the floors of buses and trains.  Random job terminations and the crazy difficulty of securing another position.  Seemingly sound relationships coming to a sudden end.  I could go on.

But if I did, I might go crazy.  Not crazy enough to suffocate someone and stuff them in a wheelie bin, perhaps, but so fixated on negativity that I miss everything going on around me that sings a different tune.

Like the young man who quickly grabbed my arm to prevent my falling down the steps at Aldgate tube station.  Or the former neighbor who kindly retrieves the stray mail I receive at my former address.  Or the hospital patient last night who told me I had a face that "no man could resist." :)

And here as well, I could go on.  It all serves to illustrate that we humans do not come in just one variety.  Within ourselves, even, we are a full spectrum of possibility, inspired action, and mischief.  Ani DiFranco summarizes "I am 32 flavors and then some."  At least 32.

I still don't know what snaps inside a person and makes them carry through on something like murder.  I have theories about nurture, communication, and responsibility, but none of them add up to one human being taking the life of another.  On the other hand, I have no scientific explanation for the impulse to save another from falling, or being hit by a moving vehicle, or from circling the drain amidst their own despair and self-criticism.  This, too, is what being human looks like.

In the end, the gossip in which I indulge, the tiny daggers I fire, or the sum total of every little thing I've helped myself to that wasn't really mine to take may add up to something no more virtuous than the deadly impulse of an evening, resulting in a life sentence.  Fortunately for me (and for you, I assume), we at least have a renewable daily chance to show a different color, and work out our penance on the free side of a barred metal door.

---
people are people
the good, bizarre and ugly
which flavor today?

Oh, Danny Boy...

Before November 2nd, my dream was to work for BBC London.

This station has been my audio companion for over two years, schooling me about my future home before I moved here, initiating me into the lingo and ethos of the United Kingdom, and most importantly, introducing me to my first friends who presented shows that really engaged listeners and gave a human voice to the city which I was soon to call my own.  They kept me company during Will and Kate's wedding, made me cry with their shock and sadness at the sudden death of overnight presenter Big George, and even read out a couple of my emails live on air--a transcontinental thrill for an aspiring broadcaster, to be sure.

When I finally made the big move, my familiar on-air friends were welcome company through many challenging days.  I enjoyed Robert Elms' audio explorations of London, Jo Good's hilariously frank late night conversations, and most of all, Danny Baker's show from 3-5pm every weekday.

This was the epitome of live radio broadcast, as far as I was concerned.  The Treehouse, as it was sometimes called, was often the highlight of my day, and I frequently found myself scheduling around it.  There was something addictive about Danny's mixture of humor, sound effects, interaction with fellow presenters, and welcoming the audience to join in the craziness.  If ever I find that "perfect" broadcasting job, I told myself, it will be something like this.  Something that doesn't feel anything like work.

My love affair with BBC London took a big hit this month, though, when I learned that Danny's show had been cancelled.  A day late, I listened in disbelief to the replay of that Thursday show when my favorite presenter came into work with the announcement that he was giving his last broadcast.  It was an odd mixture of the show's signature humor, a bitterness about the turn of events, and an impromptu swan song that no one was prepared for.

I cried.  Not just for the death of the show, but for the end of a dream.  As far as I could see, I didn't want to work for a station managed by folks who would pull a show with such heart, charm, obvious entertainment value and audience support.  More than that, here is a man who has dedicated years of his life to the station, (having recently returned after successfully beating cancer) and won numerous awards, about to be inducted into the Radio Hall of Fame--being summarily dismissed in the most odd and impersonal way.  It didn't seem to bode well for the future of BBC London--let alone radio itself.  I felt a growing despair.

As Danny himself has asserted, he will survive and thrive elsewhere, despite the demise of the show, because that is who he is.  Indeed.  But concerning my ardent affection for the station which until now has been so faithful--for the moment, anyway, I think we should see other people...


---
ax lies at the root
as treehouse dwellers scatter
love and laughter lost

Remember, remember...

I feel a little like an idiot as I write this confession.  It took me two celebrations of Guy Fawkes Night to really get what the celebration was about.

My historically minded father will likely blush as he reads my decidedly "un-historical" take on the whole holiday...  I think it has to do with the fact that while my dad hears a story once and can instantly recreate it, I hear an account of something and instantly glaze over, nodding in "agreement" but not necessarily understanding.  Wars, kings, empires, political movements--yikes.  I think I just have a mind block against it.  Whereas my father majored in history, and put me to shame by repeating explanations of famous Hong Kong landmarks which he had just learned, which was all news to me--and I was actually living there at the time.

So it's no wonder I didn't fully grasp this whole bonfire night thing and what it represents the first time around.  I vaguely recall a story about an assassination attempt on the king, which involved this Fawkes guy  :P  (get it?  Fawkes Guy),  but that the plot had failed, and for some reason every 5th of November was now celebrated, in part, by burning an effigy of Fawkes in a bonfire.  I didn't get it.  Why would you celebrate someone by burning them in effigy?  And why do we celebrate a would be assassin?  Did they really not like that king terribly much?  But it apparently didn't trouble me enough to really dig deeper and get clear on the whole thing.  That didn't happen until this year.

I am now entering my second annual cycle of London life, and starting to have some "flashbacks" to events from last year as things begin to repeat themselves.  I knew that bonfire night was approaching again, but this year, for some reason, I felt the need to trouble myself and get an explanation for my nagging unease at this holiday.  So I went where every inquiring mind goes for definitive answers: Wikipedia.

Lo and behold, when I read the description this time, it suddenly made sense.  Guy Fawkes was among the plotters to kill the king, he was discovered and captured, and died a gruesome death.  But the holiday is a celebration of the failure of the plot, and Fawkes becomes some kind of antihero whose death is a welcome final punctuation to a story which could have ended tragically for the king.  The so called "Gunpowder Plot" which didn't succeed is now commemorated through the explosion of fireworks, much like any country would celebrate their independence day.  Duh.

Guess I can sleep easier now.  That is, if people would just stop exploding things.

---

Failed action hero
But great excuse for fireworks--
The Guy of the hour

For All the Saints

I rarely publish the text of my sermons, as I was taught that a "sermon" is actually the live delivery in real time of the Word, regardless of what may be written on the page.  But this All Saints Sunday I was moved by the privilege of preaching and presiding at St. Anne's Lutheran Church.  Below is my manuscript.

-----

Earlier this year I heard that my friend Les in Detroit was dying.  This was someone who had played a key role in empowering me to accomplish my great transatlantic move to England.  We had weekly phone calls to set goals and report progress, and keep alive the promise of possibility that had inspired me to choose this massive life shift in the first place.  Les was confronting, often annoying on these calls.  Many times, I didn’t feel like talking to him.  But always, at the end of it, I was grateful that someone with no personal stake in it at all was willing to push me to do what it took to realize my dream.  Hearing that this friend of mine was on the verge of succumbing to cancer felt unreal.  I wished that I could have been there at the memorial, to bear witness to this extraordinary life and grieve with my friends who had gathered.

I’m sure we could all tell stories of people whose paths have crossed ours, who have made a similar impression upon us.  People whose very lives seemed to be a testimony to the Spirit’s power.  People who have touched us with their presence, and left us changed.  When we hear that such a person has died, our first reaction is, “It can’t be.  He was always so full of life.  Or she showed what it meant to truly live.”  It is such people who make us want to believe that there is a life beyond our own, a real communion of saints.
    
What a gift God has given us, in placing us on this earth alongside others who remind us just how full of grace and love our creator really is.  In order to be a saint, the only requirement is that one be holy.  And to be holy simply means that you’ve been touched by God.  I challenge you to find one person in this room that hasn’t been touched by God.  One person who wouldn’t qualify for sainthood.
    
The first way God touched us was by creating us in the first place.  The singer of Psalm 139 says to God, “You knit me together in my mother’s womb.”  What a gentle, intimate way to begin our journey of sainthood.  God’s hands made us exactly who we needed to be, with every variation and nuance of our being--even those things which we consider less than perfect.  Still, not enough to disqualify us as saints--that is, those who have been touched by God.
    
God touches us again in our baptism, through the water and the Holy Spirit--and makes us saints with a name all our own--called the Children of God.
    
As we travel the road of sainthood, we are touched many times along the way.  At sometimes we can feel it more than at others--like when we are struggling or in pain, and receive an indescribable sense of peace, as though we are truly feeling the hand of God.  Maybe it was during an illness, or some other crisis.  For saints are never promised easy lives.  We are only assured that we will never be alone in our suffering.
    
Other times, it might be people through whom we feel the touch of God.  Fellow saints who seem to radiate the Spirit in an unusually bright way--people like my friend Les, who faced many hardships in his life, but rose to accomplish amazing things nevertheless, and inspired others to do the same.  Think about those in your life who have this pull of the Spirit.  Remember what it felt like to be around someone who seemed to mediate the very presence of God.  It is not that they are somehow, by themselves, “great people,” but they are able, by God’s grace, to reflect the divine--to somehow mirror back to us the way our creator must see us.  To touch us with the hand of God.
    
God touches us again in a way that is perhaps the most unforgettable of all: when Jesus  comes to live among us--truly human and tangible, reaching out in words and deeds, and simply being present, as God among people.  When his dear friend Lazarus died, and Jesus saw how grieved his family was at the loss of their brother, Jesus too felt the pain of losing one so dear.  After crying tears of his own, he reaches out and pulls his friend back from beyond death, even, just to show how powerful is God’s love, and how just being touched by it can release us from the grip of death, and bring us into something new, recreating us in the process.
    
That something new is what we talk about today, when we anticipate how our God plans to bring us all back together at the end of time.  The images of the great feast, of eternal fellowship and the end of suffering and grief fill our readings this morning, reminding us of just what it means to be saints--in the company of other saints, and in the presence of a God whose touch has reached beyond every earthly and supernatural boundary we can imagine.  This is the God who gathers, who celebrates with creation, and who makes all things new.
    
When we think of loved ones who have gone before us in death, we often find ourselves visiting their graves, stopping to remember who they were and what they meant to us.  We leave flowers in their honor; we may even find that we can talk to them there--that they are somehow close.  Maybe we think about that final feast, where we’ll all be reunited, where we won’t have to wait to be with our fellow saints, in the presence of God who loves us.
    
I invite you to be so impatient for that day, that you refuse to wait any longer. This day, and every day we share the Lord’s Supper, is not only a preview of that ultimate reunion, but a present time, real celebration with ALL the saints, living, dead, and yet unborn.  It is another way that our Lord touches us--offering us the real food of his body and blood, and his hand upon our heads in blessing.  It’s dinnertime for the saints, where we gather around the table, are fed, strengthened and sent out again…
    
Whether we  choose it or not, we are saints, by the very fact that our lives have the handprints of God all over them.  What God has touched, cannot help but be transformed, made holy.  John W. Crawford’s poem says it well:


Once it was that only
green hawthorne or arbor vitae grew nearby
shading good souls gone to their reward.

Sometimes, especially in July heat,
sharp pink and red Zinnia heads
rose over those same souls lined with quiet satin,
with strong voices floating in the wind,
laughing loud at such dead things beneath.

Now, in human jest, hard stems rise by hard stones
announcing with guarded hope some new birth of life,
some Lazarus scene bursting forth
breaking the hard red soil apart.

Ode to a 15 Bus

Oh, bus #15, how I love thee...

It starts at Regents Street, just where I need it when finishing up an evening of knitting with friends.  When I board, it's mostly empty, so I can get a lovely front row upper deck seat, in preparation for the "poor man's tour" of London landmarks...

And we're off!  Through the flashing maze of Picadilly Circus, whipping around the corner to Haymarket...down around the bend and it's Trafalgar Square!  Look quickly--if you turn your head to the right, you get a lightning fast glimpse of the Mall, then Parliament, then it's back again to Trafalgar Square for a lasting gaze at those lovely blue fountain lights casting a glow upon the National Gallery...

Now past Charing Cross, now the Savoy, and through the theatre district...Bush House, the Royal Courts of Justice, and all those funny streets named after old time sellers of shoes, leather, and other handcrafted things...

Nearing the Old Bailey, and in the distance looms St. Paul's Cathedral like an old grandfather.  Pass the cathedral and you can shoot a look across the Millennium Bridge to the Tate.

Here comes the Monument, and we're now approaching my favorite part of the journey...wait for it...the Tower of London and Tower Bridge both together, like some big finale in a fireworks show!  They appear so suddenly and so close, it takes my breath away every time, even though I know what's coming.  The lights on the fortress walls and across the bridge glow in majestic reminder that I actually live in this amazing place.

A quick pass through Aldgate and we're nearly home.  Once I alight at New Road, I really have no idea where the 15 goes from there.  Blackwall, says the front board.  But by then I've seen everything I wanted to see of famous London sights, and feel quite satisfied as my tour comes to an end.

The #15 is a route that still features the vintage Routemaster buses to delight visitors.  They are historic and novel, allowing you to hop on and off the back of the open carriage.  But I still prefer the standard bus, as I sit atop the upper deck, pretending to contain my excitement as I see London again, for the first time, still a tourist at heart.

---
pleasure trip on wheels,
making every old view new
thy name is 15

Access Granted

So I spent the afternoon with Hugh Grant.  And about fifty other people, but hey, Hugh and I shared the same room for three and a half hours.

Not surprisingly, the event was a two part panel discussion about the Leveson Inquiry, at which he'd made a very public testimony regarding the hacking of his own phone, so it wasn't all that unusual to see him in attendance.  More notable was the fact that after living 13 1/2 months in this city, this is the first celebrity I've come across during that entire time.  Unless you include seeing the very top of the Queen's Jubilee Barge as it made its way downriver for the anniversary parade, but I don't think that counts, as I only really saw Her Majesty on the large screen alongside the Thames.

I didn't even recognize him at first.  He sauntered in late, just as half a dozen others had, so I didn't pay any notice until the moderator made some comment about the "moderately famous" person who had just entered.  My friend whispered to me, "Hugh Grant."  But I didn't believe it.  Until I put on my glasses and confirmed her assertion.  Oops.  Guess my distance vision isn't exactly what it used to be.  Hugh Grant indeed.

It's funny to observe the effect a celebrity will have on a crowd.  This group was small to begin with, and presumably quite serious about regulation of the journalism industry, enough to be spending several hours of their Saturday in a small lecture hall in Bloomsbury.  But enter Hollywood superstar, and you'd think we were all teenagers again.

In addition to the Channel 4 news camera which was covering the event, and seemed to also be documenting Grant's attendance, I saw more than a few camera phones trained in his direction during the presentation.  At the halfway break a couple spectators requested photos with him.  My own lame attempts to document the moment were characteristically blurry and of the poorest possible photographic quality, given my cheap phone.  I did manage to capture an audio clip at the end of the sessions when Hugh finally graced us with a soundbyte quote regarding the issue at hand.

But I've always had mixed feelings about approaching celebrities, not in regards to their personal privacy, but about my own sense of dignity.  It's always been a fantasy of mine to casually encounter a random star, let's say Johnny Depp, at a merchant counter or a gallery somewhere, and make some fantastically witty off the cuff comment to start up a conversation.  By the end of it, the so-called star would be left thinking, "Who was that girl?  I simply must see her again!"  But by then I'd have disappeared back into the crowd, leaving said celebrity intrigued and wanting more.

I know that if Hugh hadn't been engaged by others in most of his free moments, he would've made his way across the room to the woman in the pink jacket with that certain something about her--not sure exactly what it was--but he wouldn't have been sorry.  :)

After a while, I became accustomed to the fact that an A-list actor was sitting just yards away from me, and I'd look over thinking, "Yeah, there he is."  Looking quite ordinary, really, with his somewhat geeky horn rimmed glasses and understated pullover sweater.

My friend sitting next to me scratched a note on her paper--"We just got to spend two hours with Hugh Grant!"  To which I responded, "He's lucky to have gotten so much time with us."

And so he was.

---
hey, celebrity
if you're good I may grace you
with a word or two

As Close as I Want to Be

It's October, and I'm missing campaign season.  Or rather, I am not missing it.  No disappointment here.

I seem to get plenty of updates via friends' Facebook posts and the news pieces I come across in my journalism studies.  And even though I can't watch debates live (unless I want to fight sleep from 2-4am), I find that there are multiple updates the next morning, conveniently summarized with all the pertinent highlights.  Nothing lost (except for maybe the experience of wanting to get those couple hours of my life back, had I actually watched it live).

What I am escaping are all the automated phone calls with their pre-election polls.  Yard signs littering the neighborhood streets in silent battles between contending candidates and their supporters.  Loads of third class mail from the party and others, making extra sure you get yourself to the polls on November 6th.  Mudslinging ads on television and radio, all day long.

What I am not missing is the experience of voting.  Granted, via a paper form and an air mail envelope instead of an electronic booth inside a church near my old house.  And I won't be enjoying any of the baked goods that are always for sale by those church people every year on election day.  Nor will I get my little sticker which proudly announces, "I voted today!" for all to see.

But I will still exercise my duty as a citizen, and cast my vote which I'm hoping will make a tiny dent in the returns of a highly contested "swing state."  And I will be able to answer to all my family and friends, who seem to be giving me no end of pestering, wondering if I have/am planning to/remembered to vote yet???

I'll make my best effort to catch the returns as they come in on the 6th, staying awake as long as I am able, in order to know whom the U.S. has chosen to carry out the unenviable task of leading our nation through the next four years.

But I have no regrets that this election season, I am blissfully shielded from all the nuisance of signs, fliers, ads and unsolicited phone recordings.  As much as I miss a delicious Midwest Autumn, I suppose in the end, it's not a bad tradeoff.


---
overseas voter
avoiding all the hassle
but not the duty

Wild City Life

A pigeon nearly got a free ride from Aldgate to Uxbridge yesterday morning.  Only a day after I recall having the thought, "With all the birds wandering around this platform, I wonder if one has ever gotten on the train," there, as if on cue, was the little gray adventurer--brave or stupid?--hopping his way through the carriage as though scoping out the best seats.  A fellow passenger also noticed, and we joined in an unspoken pact to save this pigeon from his own foolishness.

I opened the train doors, as we were merely sitting at the platform waiting for departure several minutes hence.  Tried to steer him toward the open door.  Of course, this just made him move further down the carriage.  I thought at this point that my efforts were in vain, so I gave up, saying "Stupid bird--he's going to Uxbridge," and sat down, in an uncharacteristically un-heroic gesture from one who routinely chases flies and moths around the room just to capture and release them back to nature.

My fellow passenger, however, was more tenacious and managed to encourage the stowaway back towards--and out of--the waiting door.  I gave her a nod of approval and then felt slightly foolish for giving up so soon.

It got me thinking about wildlife in urban areas, London specifically.  I'd heard much about the foxes which apparently plague the city, but didn't see one for months.  And then, within the space of several weeks I spotted a couple out my window in the early morning, and one literally by the side of the pavement looking not so well.  Some neighbors were calling for assistance.

I've always felt ambivalent about this issue of wildlife in cities.  Even not so urban streets that cut through major animal traffic areas and leave a legacy of carnage strewn along the roadside--I ask myself what right have we to motor our vehicles at top speed through the places which once allowed critters to roam freely and safely (that is, until another predator snatched them up, I suppose).  Still, these things bother me.

Here in London, it is mostly pigeons that one encounters, although I have seen squirrels around Harrow, and magpies and a few other small bird species almost anywhere there's a green space.  And if one goes South to Brighton or other seaside towns, you will find the most aggressive seagulls you've ever encountered.  While roaming Hampstead Heath, I even saw some rats (the cousins of whom can be spotted on Underground tracks between train arrivals).

I suppose as long as humans insist upon settling and building on formerly natural areas, we are destined to share our home with the wilder element.  In some ways I don't mind all that much.  In fact, I rather like the spontaneity it affords when a butterfly unexpectedly breezes across my path or a gull provides free entertainment by dive-bombing an unsuspecting visitor's open food tray.

Or when a pigeon makes a valiant, yet ultimately unsuccessful attempt to accompany me on my tedious morning commute.


---
avian rider,
is going by Underground
faster than flying?

Getting schooled

After 13 years away, Wendy is back in one of her favorite roles: student.  And while this MA Broadcast Journalism program I'm studying isn't all that easy, for me, being in school is.

I'm one of those people who could probably be a student forever.  For better (expanding world) or for worse (diminishing finances), it's a role that's always felt natural to me, from those early days of kindergarten right up through my last degree.

When many of my seminary classmates were whining about "having to spend one more year on campus," (following internship) rather than going out immediately into professional ministry, I was that annoying one who relished being back in academia and secretly hoped it would never end.

When I was serving in campus ministry, I would get a little pang of longing each fall when the new year started, half wishing I were the one carrying that backpack and heading off to class.

Now that I'm back in the classroom, even at age 41, I still feel a sense of belonging here.  Something about me was born to study, participate in discussions, and explore new worlds.  This broadcast program is especially stimulating as we are actively doing projects, learning new software and equipment, and taking on group tasks which simulate the work of a journalist.  It's lively, fun, and plenty challenging for my tastes.  And my classmates are the most diverse group with whom I've ever studied--hailing from many countries around the world and providing perspective as well as hilarity on a daily basis.  I love them all.

I realize that this world of school is not meant to last forever.  Unlike those who make their living through instruction or some other role within the institution, for me this will only be a passing season.

But for the time being, that oddly ageless looking girl looking just a little too comfortable toting her backpack down those halls is me.


---
a student of life
sounds a little better than
a student for life

The Things We Do for Love

Philo is lucky he's a cat. In human terms, his behavior would be entirely unacceptable. Whining loudly at all times of day, sometimes just to hear his own voice, noisily trying to "bury" food bowls after mealtimes, walking across my internal organs in the most painful way possible--these things do not endear him to me. He also taunts his little sister by pretending that he's grooming her (which she loves), and then, after a few licks, begins to nip at her (which she hates). You'd think she'd learn.

But Philo has a way of getting what he wants. Whether it's attention and affection on demand, a perch with a view, or a spot in bed with someone he barely knows (oh, for the courage!), he just has an approach that works. It worked on me.

This cat appeared out of nowhere (i.e. the South Dakota prairie) late one rainy Saturday night. After a brief meowing session outside the window I happened to be closing, and a less than graceful introduction wherein he soiled my clothing with his dirty wet paws, this wandering minstrel secured a place on my back porch, complete with dining, bed and bath suite. And this, at the end of a week where I had assuredly declared that after the death of my first beloved cat three months prior, I was certainly not ready for another. Philo apparently heard it as a challenge.

His first night indoors (on the eve before his neutering surgery) became a sleep-deprived, prolonged yowling session which eventually found me curled up in the bathtub, door closed, pillows shoved against both ears while Philo ran frantically from window to window. This could have been the first indication that domestic life with this animal was not going to be a walk in the park.

His mood did settle somewhat after the surgery, but I suspected he knew very little of indoor life when he would recline alongside his food dish, tipping a few pellets onto the floor with his paw, and eating them from there. He also seemed inept at lapping water from a bowl, choosing instead to submerge the entire lower half of his mouth and coming away with a dripping chin (which earned him the nickname "Waterbeard.")

These things may sound unspeakably cute to the reader who has never heard the high volume monologues at 5am, or the unearthly screams on trips to the vet, all for the crime of loading his carrier into a moving vehicle or attempting to examine his teeth. And I do mean screams.

But it would be unfair not to credit Philo for his amusing habit of vocalizing with every leap and motion, his fearless exploration of any new environment, and the affectionate overtures he universally bestows, which earned him a name referring back to the Greek word for love.

Obviously, in spite of his ill-timed yeowling (which I was privileged to experience again this morning), this cat has earned a permanent place in my household. He eventually accepted--even loved--the little sister kitten I brought into his life without asking permission. He has never once complained that we've moved no fewer than six times during his fourteen years with me. And despite the faceful of fur he frequently presents, I wouldn't trade that possessive, protective paw that lays across me as I sleep--not for anything.


---
what is in a name?
for my furry loverboy,
a title well-earned

Go On with Your Dusty Self

I have always appreciated the depth of an Ash Wednesday. Growing up, having those ashes smeared on my forehead and those ominous words spoken over me--the morbid part of me loved it. As a pastor, the gravity of saying those same words to newborns and seniors alike is both humbling and sobering, smearing ash on each and every head that presents itself.

And then, the dilemma. Shall I intentionally avoid "practicing my piety before others" and wash off the smudge before travelling home? Or should I stop being so vain and concerned with what others think, and simply keep the outward sign of the mortality that's always with me as a visible mark for a short while? This year I chose the latter, although as soon as I stepped out of the church building, I instantly regretted it.

First, I was aware that I was looking down, away, anywhere but at people's faces so that the mark wouldn't be readily noticed. Then I noticed my relief when we were all facing the same way, as when we rode the down escalator to the tube platform, as it meant I didn't have to make eye contact. Then I wished I'd just worn a blasted hat which I could've pulled down far enough to make it a non issue. What was I thinking? I'd have been better off just washing the mark away before leaving, rather than doing this ridiculous internal dance and external avoidance.

As I sat waiting for the train at the FAR end of the platform, she walked past me. A woman--I didn't look at her. But I felt her looking at me. Oh great, I thought, she's noticed the smudge and is now staring at me like the freak that I am. I will not look back. I will not give her the satisfaction. I will continue looking ahead, as if I haven't noticed her staring.

Train arrives. We both board, and I am dismayed to notice that she stands opposite me, alongside the doors where I could avoid nearly every face on board. I can still feel her stare, and it aggravates me so much I decide to just look up. I meet her eyes, which are smiling warmly at me. She gives me a look of knowing, of compassion or kinship or both. I instantly return the smile. And I feel ashamed.

How often do I jump to conclusions about people and their intentions toward me? How often do I judge myself first, before anyone else has a chance to, or to at least be able to say "I already knew that" should I meet with criticism? I hated that smudge the instant I set foot outside my church; it sat smugly ashen and dirty upon my forehead as though it represented every secret undesirable fault I contained. The things I walk around with and pretend I'm hiding from the world. And all those things which everyone else carries around, irrationally thinking they're the only ones who could possess such faults, such imperfections, such dark secrets and desires.

To dust we shall return--all of us. And we believe we bear the imperfection of our nature all alone, until some brave soul dares to look us in the eye, to share a common moment, to say without words "I know who you are."

Remember: you are dust. There's no judgment in it. It's just a truth about who you are, and actually, it's perfect. And when you choose to just love your dusty old self, instead of walking around, cast down in self-loathing, you may look up long enough to see the world--that crazy imperfect world--loving you back.



---
ashes to ashes
imperfection knows its own
and can't help smiling

Pond Jumping

So here I am. When people ask, "Why London?" my answer is usually, "Why not?!" Yes, I dreamed of living here as a child. And I've loved it both times I visited, wishing I could stay longer. But in the end, it's like this: I was driving to Iowa last summer, feeling confronted by my lackluster life, and longing to create something new, when I found myself saying out loud, "I want to move to London."

If you've ever tried this, you know how dangerous it is to actually speak something out loud. Even if there's no one else around, you can't pretend you didn't hear yourself say it. And as soon as I heard it, something shifted inside me. It's a shift I recognize from a few other times in my life, like when I found I'd be living in Hong Kong after college. Or when I knew I wanted to become a cat-mom. Big, life-changing things. :) But you "know" in a way that doesn't come with too many reasons or explanations.

In the year I spent planning and preparing for this move, I met a number of UK-born folks whose dream it was to make a new life in the U.S. These connections were especially precious, as we had an instant kinship. Of course I wanted to move to England. What's to explain?

But then I got to thinking--what is it with those of us who seem bent on living somewhere other than the country of our birth? A restlessness? A crazy notion that everything will be better "over there?" An irrepressible sense of adventure or simply boredom with the familiar?

The closest I can come to an explanation, for those who require one, is that I moved to London for love. And now that I'm here, that notion is confirmed every day: double decker red buses, centuries old houses converted to apartments, rose gardens and gilded trash cans, a ridiculous number of different coin denominations, screen-less windows, polite nods and more tea towels than any one person could ever use. Even when this place drives me crazy, I still can't get enough of it.

And isn't that, my friends, what love truly is?


---
american in london
united states--or kingdom
finds herself at home

A year well seasoned

The groundhog is a big fat liar.

Granted, I never put much stock in the weather predicting abilities of rodents, but in the dismal chill of early February, any bit of good news is cause for hope. A woodchuck or a meteorologist? Take your pick--the accuracy is about the same. But here in the dismal chill of late March, my patience begins to run thin...

Except for two years in subtropical Asia, I have always lived in a climate with discernible, contrasting seasons. The changes in temperature, weather, and vegetation have marked chapters in my life, as well. I like the variance--it keeps things fresh for a girl addicted to change. But I do have one complaint. At least here in the Great Lakes region (and also the Midwest where I grew up), the seasons aren't of proper length. Winter and summer test our patience with their extremes of temperature and duration, while the lovely, temperate Spring and Fall seem to get up and excuse themselves right when you were enjoying their company the most.

I have some advice for the seasons, if they're interested in being appreciated to the fullest possible extent: keep within the bounds of three months a piece. It's only fair.

Just imagine...just as Fall has run its course at November's end, Winter tantalizes us with that first dusting of snow, building up to an oh so cozy White Christmas. Even the worst of cold weather critics couldn't object to a predictable period of snow and ice through February, where at least we have some holiday diversions to occupy our attention. A snow day or two is a nice novelty... Then, just as we're feeling proud of our winter endurance--

March arrives! Enter Spring, with mud and flowers and new buds and crazed wildlife. Never was an old friend more welcome, with the advent of baseball, fresh air, and increased sunlight--thawing hearts along with the ground. Now imagine THREE SOLID MONTHS of this heaven...with what cheer would we welcome the next season, having had our fill of planting, wooing, and three-quarter length sleeves...

Summer would arrive in timely fashion, right as the school year ends, and vacation plans begin. Sure, the weather would be hot, but is that not expected in June, July and August? A few months to show off the fruits of winter workouts (right?!) and float through the outdoor festival season in gauzy threads (okay, perhaps that's just me...). But you get the idea. And a little heat provides an excellent opportunity for us Midwesterners to do something we're really skilled at: complain about the heat. Can you even remember what winter felt like? I think these must be record temperatures. Time to get out the Slip 'n' Slide. (or insert your favorite complaint here). We gotta give the people what they want. And anyway, you won't have to hear it for very long, because everyone would be assured that once September arrived, we'd be securely in the arms of...

Aaaaahhhh, Autumn. As it's my favorite, I saved it for last. For me, the smells, tastes, and sights of this season are the sweetest and most savory. I could live in Fall for quite some time. But even pumpkins, bonfires, and crunching colored leaves have their limit--imagine eating crème brûlée every day. Would it not lose some of its charm? And so, I'd be satisfied with three full months of Autumn delights, feeling I'd had a proper serving of enchantment, sufficient to see me through the dormant days to come.

Well, seasons, what do you think? A fair enough proposal? You each get three equal months in which to wow us with your splendors. And just as we reach the tipping point, you gently exit, a wistful "see you next year" in your wake. We get the benefit of missing you, and you leave feeling fully appreciated. So what do you say?

The stillness of a 23° March morning seems to be the only reply.

-------

My perfect design

Of well-apportioned seasons:

Everybody wins

To sleep, perchance...

The earliest dream I can remember was somewhere around age 4 or 5. A faithful watcher of the Donny & Marie Show, I once dreamt I met Donny Osmond--in person! I couldn't believe he was standing right there in front of me, and as he reached out to shake my hand, in that instant--poof! I woke up. :( My disappointment could hardly be contained.

The phenomenon of dreaming fascinates me, and I have often recalled these night time adventures in great detail. I still have vivid memories of a "giant spider" who haunted me after I watched some scary Disney movie about a predatory octopus. Or the eerie incident where classrooms in my school were collapsing, one by one, into the hollow courtyard below. But the dreams weren't all bad.

There was the heart to heart I shared with Jim Carrey--and felt like I really knew him upon waking. Or the infants I held--with amazement--in my arms, somehow "knowing" they were mine, even during a time in my life when I was convinced I didn't want children. But one of my all time favorites happened when I was a high schooler, just before waking one morning.

I'm walking down the hallway of my school, between classes, nothing special. Suddenly, and for no particular reason, I begin singing the opening lines to Barry Manilow's "Daybreak." Now, even though I was a bit of a Manilow geek, even I was surprised that I seemed to have no trouble whatsoever recalling every word. As the song progressed, other students joined in, also knowing all the words. The event culminated in a highly choreographed, almost "flash mob-esque" finale, set against the double staircase on the second floor--all executed perfectly. And then, when the last notes were over, everyone simply continued on to their next class, books in hand, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

My first thought upon waking was, "That was weird. But kind of cool." As I lay in bed, delaying the inevitable morning routine, my clock radio announced, "Before that we heard Barry Manilow's 'Daybreak'..." And then it all made sense to me. But somehow that made it even cooler--a dream with a soundtrack!

As for recurring dreams, I've only ever had two. In the first, I am searching frantically for a public restroom (this is in the early morning hours, so not too much of a mystery, I suppose...), but always find it too be just a little too public -- as in, rows of toilets with no dividers, or an open-air design, facing a busy freeway. The dilemma is always, how badly do I really need to go?!

The second recurring dream is much more satisfying--I am flying, on my own power. At first, it's usually a bit of a slow start, as I question how this is gravitationally possible. But I always end up just going with it, somehow propelling myself upward, over trees, neighborhoods, cities. And the feeling is pure exhilaration, and a sense of "I knew I could do this."

I have read a little about dream interpretation. But my own "school" goes something like this: generally speaking, a dream is rarely an omen, nor a deep symbolic mystery to be unraveled. Rather, the predominant sensation or emotion one experiences in the dream is simply a reflection of what's already going on in waking life. This applies nearly every time I try it on. Even if the actual circumstances in the dream look nothing like "real" life, chances are the feelings do.

Still, analyzing a dream almost seems irrelevant--just as a former roommate of mine used to muse that naming and identifying stars and galaxies took the wonder and mystery out of night sky gazing. Perhaps. Better to let the dream world be what it is--a temporary escape from the "logical" day to day world where one hour follows the next, somewhat predictably, and the laws of physics--for the most part--apply.

After all, where else can you meet your favorite celebrities, defy gravity, and star in your own music video--all in one night?!

----

nocturnal dramas...

you may say I'm a dreamer

and you would be right

A rock by any other name...

I just bought pajamas with clouds on them. They practically reached out with their little ruffled sleeves and dragged me to the checkout counter, so cute are they. It wasn't until after getting them home that it struck me--half of my chosen Chinese name is "cloud!" So it was a deeper, more primal urge that inspired this purchase. (I know, whatever helps me sleep at night, right?)

But it got me thinking about names again. The names we're given, and the ones we choose. (And, I suppose, the ones we reject). As a newborn, I defied both of the names pre-selected for me-Amy and Jill--by simply not looking like either of them. (I guess a mother just knows these things.) ;) The story told to me goes something like this. Neither choice being suitable, my mother settled down to a well-deserved post delivery nap. Upon waking, in that inspired place between sleep and full consciousness, she suddenly knew what my name would be--Wendy Sue! And so it was. I like to believe that I was telling her who I really was, in my own pre-verbal way. :) Or perhaps I give myself too much credit...

Nonetheless, I ended up with a name which, although not technically existing before the publication of Peter Pan, has subsequently been interpreted to mean "wanderer." A more appropriate title for me there could not be. :)

I have wandered the globe, the US, even the contours of my own mind and spirit during the 39 years I've spent on this planet. You might even say that it's a hallmark of my life not to stay put. The past nine years in Toledo have been the longest consecutive stretch of time I've lived in any one place. Ever. And so the Wanderer lives up to her name...

My name expanded after a two year residence in Hong Kong, where I learned that Westerners often adopt a Chinese name for themselves. My former neighbor, who had knowledge of the language, assisted me in selecting mine, which combines the characters for "cloud"- 雲 and "stone"- 石. It illustrates what I see as the essential paradox of my life: remaining stable and grounded, while maintaining the free spirit to wander. A related internet alias I've sometimes used is Petra, playing on the "rock" theme from a borrowed Greek word.

Other cultures make much more of names and their meanings than my own does. But as one who loves significance in all forms, I'm satisfied with my chosen monikers. And grateful that I have a mother who, upon realizing that her baby had other ideas, happily cooperated with the inspiration of the moment.

-----

an aspiration

to roam the earth, while solid--

that's what's in a name

T.G.I.M.

I have never been a workaholic. In seminary, we were repeatedly cautioned against getting out of balance with our time management, and not knowing when to take a break. Even as I heard these warnings, I knew it would never be a problem for me. That's just not how I roll.

In fact, I may err more on the side of taking it easy. I have always been conscious of healthy boundaries, and encourage others to do the same (with varying degrees of success). I like to think that what I have to offer is a mindfulness of leisure and sabbath time, something which is sometimes lacking in my more motivated peers.

Throughout my post academic life, whenever I've been employed full-time, I've guarded and cherished my day off. Because most of those years have involved some sort of ministry, it happens that I've declared my own "sabbath" day--usually a Monday or Friday.

Now, however, I find myself in a half-time employment situation. For the first few months on the job, I neglected to take a "day off," figuring that half time hours would allow for plenty of down time. The time I wasn't working my job, however, was being filled with household and other obligations, volunteering, seeking further employment, etc. What I noticed was a growing resentment as the weekend approached, and I realized that I would be working through it (as pastors do), and then going straight into the next week with no real break in sight.

I soon recognized what was missing: a true "sabbath" day, just as I had always observed. Even part time pastors need a day off--go figure. :)

And so Monday has become, once again, a little oasis each week. I may get things done around the house; I may not. The point is, I don't beat myself up for it either way. Mostly, I'm enjoying what there is to enjoy: time with my furry housemates, good conversation, tasty morsels, an occasional massage, or idle web surfing.

And once again, order has been restored to my week.

-----

A day's refreshment

Joy not to be overlooked

Thank God it's Monday!