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!

Waiting for Supermoon...

The moon and I go way back.

When I was born, it was in Sagittarius. Which is supposed to make me curious, adventurous, and adaptable, "leaving a wake of encouragement and inspiration behind" me. I will let those of my acquaintance decide whether or not this describes me.

I do remember being captivated by the natural beauty of the world when I was young. The moon always seemed very mysterious, and I loved its luminosity when it was full.

In elementary school, it became more scientific--we constructed devices in order to view the lunar eclipse, as it was supposed to be dangerous to look directly at it. But I knew my old friend wouldn't harm me. It was that volatile Mr. Sun that I had to be careful of...

I remember moon gazing on warm Hong Kong nights, pining over lost love and wondering if there ever could be another. The moon is good company for things like that.

The Chinese have a holiday dedicated entirely to the moon. It was then that I knew I'd been sent to the right place. :)

And then, in seminary, I took my moon watching to another level, partnering with a friend for monthly walks to appreciate it in its fullness. We studied it, named it, drank it in. Full-blown loonies.

A first dance with a new love, to the tune of Van Morrison's "Moondance."

And of course, more lost love, more pining...

The night I drove to the Chicago airport to meet my cat Boomer, who'd just been flown in from Hong Kong to spend the remainder of his years with me Stateside, there was a very bright moon. As he slumbered from a long, probably unpleasant flight, I took comfort from my old friend, offering me gleaming company on my lonely, lengthy drive back to Dubuque.

I once got to witness a partial eclipse from a plane window. Someone even moved over so I could get a better view.

I installed a roof window in my upstairs room, and have been known to sleep under it, just to soak in those moonbeams and see it winking at me, should I happen to wake in the night.

And tonight...wait for it...Supermoon. The closest it's been to Earth since 1993. 14 percent bigger and 30 percent brighter --much more moon for one's money. And it is not disappointing me. As it rises through the haze, I see a rainbow aura around it, and I know my old friend has returned to me.

Here's to all my fellow loonies--tonight's our night. :)


-----
Moon-gazers unite--

Our inspiration rises

To meet our longing

I'm not Irish...but kiss me anyway :)

I love celebrating other people's holidays.

Growing up in the United States, this becomes an accepted part of life. So many immigrant cultures coming together is a perfect climate for adopting one another's celebrations and traditions, and thereby enriching your own experience. St. Patrick's Day? Why not! Everyone can be Irish for a day. At Christmas time, everyone's ethnic backgrounds come to the surface in the particular foods and rituals they observe. We probably have at least as many holidays that originated outside our country as we do native observances.

My childhood is brimming with vivid sensory memories, many of them holiday specific. Cool, costumed nights, culminating with candy sorting on the family room floor. The smell of sparklers after burning. The glow of green and blue lights on a tree. And my parents added St. Nicholas Day, which meant sock puppet shows and tolken gifts to honor the charitable bishop who was the forerunner of Santa Claus.

Being a lover of sugar, I am proud to observe the Major Candy Holidays (Halloween, Valentine's Day and Easter, of course). And when I moved to Toledo where the Polish abound, I was more than happy to adopt the paczki tradition. And king cakes. The more sugar, the better, I say.

The two years I spent in Hong Kong were a veritable bouquet of holidays, many of which I'd never experienced before. Chinese New Year, Gravesweeping festival, and my all time favorite: Mid Autumn Festival. Families flocked to the parks at night, under a full moon, surrounded by burning candles and colorful lanterns. Add moon cakes to my holiday food repertoire. And in Hong Kong, we enjoyed a double dose of celebration, being governed by the British at the time. Hey, if you want to give me the Queen's Birthday off work, I'm not going to resist you.

I took these Asian festivals home to the States with me, sharing them with friends as well. And in latter years I've added Solstice observances to the list.

I've been fortunate enough to have been in Europe on May Day, Puerto Rico for Three King's Festival, Israel for Orthodox Easter, and Chicago for the St. Pat's Parade when they turn the river green.

My fascination with amassing holidays may stem from being born in August, a month when there are no official holidays (unless one counts the Celtic Harvest Festival of Lughnasadh). But technically, a birthday is a holiday in itself, and I believe in celebrating all month long. Naturally. :)

So yes, I'll wear a splash of green and raise a Guinness to my brothers and sisters across the sea today. I may not have Irish blood, but within me beats the heart of a true holiday gourmand.

Éirinn go Brách!

-----

this world citizen

never met a holiday

she didn't adopt

The stories we tell

The legend goes like this: when I was a newborn, my parents took me with them on a trip to Florida. On the way, they visited the church of Martin Luther King Sr. (the famous civil rights leader's father). As they greeted the pastor at the door after worship, he laid his hand on my baby forehead. And from that moment onward, I was "commissioned" to be at one with all people on the planet, regardless of cultural background, and to work actively for equality and justice.

Is this story "true?" I don't know. Yes, I do feel a kinship with people that transcends ethnicity, and yes I have--and do--advocate for justice and equality. But is it because MLK, Sr. touched my forehead in blessing when I was a precious few weeks old? There's no way to know for sure. But I sure like to tell the story, and live as though it were true.

We make up stories about our lives constantly, even when we're not aware of doing so. Mostly, our stories sound something like, "I've never been good at school because I'm a kinesthetic learner," "My family produces lawyers," (or doctors or pastors, etc.) Or, "That person doesn't like me." The prominent feature of such "stories" is not what they say about us or other people, but rather how they prompt us to live our lives looking for evidence that they are, in fact, true.

Feel free to argue all you want--"No, no--it's true. I really am a kinesthetic learner!" But chances are, you had no idea what that was when you were in school. All you knew was that you were a "bad" student. I'll bet others told you that and you learned to tell yourself the same thing. Most importantly--you believed it when they said it. That external pronouncement became your internal reality. And I would be willing to bet that it was not an empowering reality for you.

My experience with Landmark Education has really shed light on this human tendency to invent our own life stories. More than that, I've discovered how much power we give to that story, such that little else becomes possible for us, outside of our own invented narrative. If I am "the poor, ignored middle child," or "the responsible one in the family," how likely am I to recognize when others are actually trying to acknowledge me, or throw caution to the wind when given a chance?

Given this, it may be tempting to just say--so give up the story! You'll be free! And it does work that way, some times. As a writer, however, I would rather advise people thus: since we humans are so inclined to write these "stories"--about virtually everything in our lives--why not simply write a darned good one? One that inspires you, empowers or amuses you, instead of what we typically create about ourselves?

My old stories sounded something like: "I'm an irresponsible youngest child," "I never get what I really want," "I'm an introvert and don't particularly like people," and "When people really get to know who I am, they back away." Dead ends, every one.

Lately, I've been writing new stories. "I love my life," "The world is itching to receive the gift I have to offer," "People want to contribute to me," and "Amazing things keep happening to me." And guess what shows up in the context of those stories? You guessed it--a pretty fabulous life. No, I still don't have the power to control all my external circumstances and demand that they show up as I desire. But I certainly get to say who I am in the midst of everything else.

Try it out--the next time you recognize that you've written a disempowering story about yourself, try writing a new one. A fun, playful, heartening one. And see what happens.

You may just become an inspired lover of people, commissioned from birth to realize equality and justice everywhere. :)

--------

Your own narrative--

The one you choose to believe--

Is your life's legend

The magic of intention

"I'm not superstitious. But...I'm a little stitious."
--Michael Scott, "The Office"

Black cats and sidewalk cracks don't bother me, but I never step through an aircraft boarding door without touching the outside of the plane at least once. I'm pretty sure it has nothing to do with a safe flight, but I can't stop now...

The Ides of March invited a little thought about superstition--or rather, what people consider to be superstitious. Frankly, even though I'm a baseball fan, I'm not overly caught up in these kind of compulsions. Not too often, that is. But I do like a good horoscope now and then. And by good, I mean a real one, that uses dates, times, latitudes--to create a comprehensive natal chart. The results can be pretty uncanny. (Check out the cool free stuff at http://www.astro.com/)

And then there's The Power of Eight, where I've been known to make a wish or two (that's what the icon in the previous post is all about, in case you were wondering). I know--I'm a pastor, for heaven's sake. But really, what can it hurt?

Superstition is much maligned, especially, it seems by people who claim a faith tradition. But check out definition #1 from my online dictionary:

superstition |ˌsoōpərˈsti sh ən|

noun

excessively credulous belief in and reverence for supernatural beings

Um...kinda sounds like religion, doesn't it?

So where am I going with all this? (aside from amusing myself at how one superstitious person can judge another--"not that irrational belief system, but this one!") I think what interests me most is how these notions actually influence intention, which seems to make all the difference. If I believe good things are going to happen to me in 2011, or on the 11th of the month (can you guess my lucky number?), then I'm obviously going to be on the lookout for them at those times. If my horoscope (not a prediction, by the way, but a series of influences--just sayin'...) tells me I'm inclined to be impulsive today, I may just have a heightened awareness of that tendency and be more likely to curb it. And if the Power of Eight says I can have anything I wish for, I may just do what it takes to make that come about. How is this any different from having a dream and not backing down until it's realized? No one would call you crazy for that.

If people are living life with intention, taking powerful action and being inspired, then I don't care much which yellow brick road they take to get there. Astonishingly, I may be more like Michael Scott than I thought.

-----

8 or 11

and why are they so lucky?

because I said so