waking to a new song

In the movie, “Dan in Real Life,” Julliette Binoche’s character describes her perfect day as “waking up in a foreign country, not really knowing the language, ready for adventure, so amazing.”

I ran across those words this morning as I took a quick peek into my Paris journal. As I have mentioned here before, I have been dreaming in French since I returned from my trip. One of the outstanding lines is “Je ne parle pas Francais”…I don’t speak French. Many wonderful comments were left about the wildness there is in not understanding language and I plan to continue to ponder, collage and sort through what that means for me. Today, however, I was delighted to read my own words written shortly after I returned to Seattle.

listening to the patter of language around me…not having to partake or be responsible for what was going on…just listening...like music—listening to a song I could not understand, but still loving the melody and the message…a lullaby…a love song…written just for me…this past week was my love song to myself…a beautiful gift that only I could give.

When you do not understand the language around you, where do your thoughts go? Do you fight it and retreat? Or do you choose to hear it as a new song around you? Maybe it is a beautiful love song or possibly it is a fight song you would rather tune out. What is the language you hear today—wherever you are?

Peace.

"glory" photo from musee d'orsay

Easter Reflection

even in death and darkness, there is the light.
redemption. resurrection.
words of my childhood
words of my faith
words of my hope
the eyes of Jesus
death in the tomb
the light of new day
it is there
always there, heavenly Father
Mother of heaven and earth
light shines upon me and through me
the eyes of Jesus
head bowed
hair flowing
the cross & resurrection
new birth of Easter
hope
peace flows like a river from the light
to death and beyond
peace in the garden
fleeing the tomb
he is risen
she is risen indeed.

photo taken Easter morning 3.23.08 @ crown hill cemetery

What's your best?

Geez Louise, this process of wounding, healing, living fully, loving well…is all so exhausting. Should it be? What is the cost of living well? Or thinking you live well? From where does the pressure come? If I was brilliant yesterday, does that mean I must be brilliant again today or I am a failure? Don Miguel Ruiz says, “Always do your best.” Some days that means you pull the covers up and stay in bed.

As I was writing this little rant, I looked out of the window and saw a beautiful little sparrow in the fresh spring blossoms of my ornamental plum tree. It reminded me of a Bible verse which quickly slipped my mind, but I landed on “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” It is apt, but not the one for which I was looking. Wait, here we go: “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”

How do we stay in relationship (or do anything) if we are constantly worrying about wounding and being wounded. What does it mean to find our own rhythm in the context of relationship? It is such a paradox. A paradoxical dance. I want to see well. I want to be in relationship. I want to find my own pace and rhythm.

Since I returned from Paris, I have been dreaming in French. One of the phrases, that sticks out in my mind is "Je ne parle pas Francais." I don’t speak French. Translated for me from dream world, it means I don’t speak the language. Is that what living life means? Constantly trying to learn the language of ourselves and of those around us? Who does the wounding? Who is responsible for the healing? Can love overcome all? Is it as simple as “turning it over to Christ?” So simple. So hard. So challenging.

Today I will choose to do my best. Who knows what that will look like? Maybe it is some ramblings on a page. Maybe it will be some completed tasks. Maybe it will include pulling the covers back over my head. Life is exhausting…AND it is an amazing and wonderful adventure…Maybe it’s worth peaking through the covers to see what’s out there. Maybe it's worth doing my best...whatever that may look like.

Thoughts? Stirrings? Rants, perhaps?

photo: 'waiting for the bus' by lucy

Paschal Mystery

"Christians speak of the "paschal mystery," the process of loss and renewal that was lived and personified in the death and raising up of Jesus." --Richard Rohr

Welcome back. So, I am a little freaked out right now, because I read the above words from a morning reading AFTER I spent my quiet time alone this morning and wrote the following (unedited):

Trust. Trust you will be held with your strong hands and mine too. Trust the process. Unfinished. We wound and we are wounded. We are never healed, but always healing if we allow ourselves to heal--to trust we will go up and down and all around. Wounding. Wounded. We wound because we are human. We heal because we are made in God's image. Healed from the tomb. Nailed to the cross and risen again.

I have been nailed to the cross time and time again. Wounded and wounding. Healing. An unfinished woman. We are moving forward. Gratitude. The healing that continues to take place in me. The woundedness and the healing. Momentarily healed, but then a new wound appears or maybe a very old one we were unaware of. We have the opportunity to receive grace and heal again. Some wounds heal quickly and some are deep and leave scars that are like gouges to our soul, but our soul survives. No matter what, the light cannot be extinguished.

Wounded and healing. Loss and renewal. Is this the "paschal mystery" of which I write? What does healing and wounding look like for you? I'd love to know your thoughts. It is a mystery to me...a paschal mystery, perhaps ☺. (By the way--I do not recall ever hearing the term paschal mystery before this morning. hmmmmm....)

Blue Dancers

Life comes rushing in so fast. I wake up dreaming of the Musee d’Orsay, Tess, the grandmother & her boys (who I have not had a chance to write about), Blue Dancers. I want to return to Paris. There is so much left undone. No regrets except maybe that I did not ride the carrousel ☺. Still, I know I will return.

I have been dreaming in French. Soon the trip will start to fade. Not so quickly for me, but it will certainly fade for others. Their lives are not changed by me. I think of Ally and the lives she touched. The life she lived. Yesterday was a day filled with memories of her just as today will be and probably—hopefully—tomorrow.

I miss Paris. I did not have to worry about so much there. I could wake up and let the wind blow me where it would. Now I am here. My dear husband sleeps next to me. The dog wants attention. My daughter is being a little snarly. (Is something wrong or is it just “normal” teenage angst?) My son is in treatment again. Lord, please help him. Help all of us.

I don’t want my journal to move away from Paris. I don’t want to leave there. I don’t want to jump into the seemingly million obligations that await me here. I just want to write about the Musee d’Orsay and Blue Dancers.

Alas, life slips in. How can I live today as though on the wings of Paris? How will I choose to live these moments fully? How will you?

Image Edgar Degas', "Blue Dancers"