Saturday, February 07, 2009

Blogger Be Brave

Nesting Doll & Porcelain

Despereaux Tilling, a mouse who dared reach beyond his mousedom, was sentenced to the dungeon. There, in a darkness so black he could not see his paw in front of his whiskers, he began to wonder if he even existed. In desperation he 'grabbed hold of his tail...to have something, anything, to hold on to. He considered fainting.'

Then he remembered the 'words of the threadmaster: honor, courtesy, devotion, and bravery' and thought, 'I will be brave.'

Bravery. Bravery! 'How best for him to be brave? He cleared his throat. He let go of his tail. He stood up straighter. Once upon a time, he said out loud to the darkness. He said these words because they were the best, the most powerful words that he knew and just the saying of them comforted him.' (pp.74-75)

Once upon a time. These are the first words of fairy tale, the quintessential beginning of story that proposes to hold in tension both joy and sorrow, terror and triumph. It strikes me that whenever we find the bravery to tell a story true and whole, to say 'Once upon a time, I...', we do something extremely powerful. We take the mute fear of darkness and give it voice; we form the void, make possible a clean and unexpected comfort, maybe even joy.

I feel compelled to say this because I have noticed small places of doubt among us— those who are asking, 'Is it okay if I write something dark?' and similarly 'Is it okay to dare the darkness of life just for a moment and write in joy?' It is okay. Maybe even essential for our existence, to keep us from fainting.

Of course I cannot resist extending an invitation then, even though I'm going to be leaving next week to attend Jubilee. It means an earlier deadline for us. Wednesday afternoon, if you want to be considered for a feature at High Calling Blogs. But here's the invitation. (There is a part of me that hesitates to begin with this prompt, simply because I don't want it to plunge us into abstract language, stereotype and sentimentality, but I thought it would be fun to try)...

Write a poem that begins, middles, or ends with Once upon a time... or even just Once... Or, if you'd prefer, you could use some other common fairy tale language like happily ever after. Just try to tell a moment true and whole. Don't shrink from the darkness or the joy but outline them in bold details— the broken yardstick that snapped because your mother spanked you with it; the goldenrods you brought to your teacher that she threw away, declaring them weeds (true story!); or the hands of your child that reached warm to cradle your chin, while she looked you in the eye and said 'You are a good mommy [or daddy].'

While you saddle your horse and dig through briar rose and bramble, I will wait for you, once upon time...


The Dolls photo, by Sara B. Used with permission.

[UPDATE: Here's my contribution...]


'Father'

Once
upon a time
I thought you would
ride back into our lives
dismount
red
convertible Pontiac,
stride
into the kitchen
past
grey splintered
barn, dead end road,
burning
barrel, wind whipped
clothesline
creaking maple...
pick up mop
you had thrown across
black and white
checkered floor,
put it back
near white iron sink,
kiss mother
on the cheek
and play fly-like-a-birdie
with me again.
That was before I learned
some people never
make it
to happily ever after.

YOU TRIED IT:
Nancy's The Dance of Time and First Post
Nikki's The Dangers of Sitting
Jennie's Picture This and Broken Wing
Erin's Divine: The Sprite (don't miss the final line of this... it was something to ponder)
Katrina's Love Amazing
Mom2Six's Once Upon a Time
Erica's Once upon a time
Laura's Valentine
Laure's 5 O'Clock Afternoon Hour

RAP:
Marcus's Drought on the Open Road

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Thursday, December 18, 2008

No Need to Be Real About Jesus

Christ child

Sun pours through the car window as I wait. Girls are in piano lessons, playing holiday duets. Christmas is coming and I'm bundled, oblivious to the stress of the season for just this snippet of time, here in the car, in the sun before tomorrow's predicted storm.

Oblivious because I'm immersed in, of all things, the gift I bought myself for Christmas. The Jewish Study Bible. Not light reading for the hectic holidays. But I'm intoxicated.

The person who wrote the introduction is talking about the preeminence of story in Genesis and other parts of Torah. Genesis is not, he reminds me, philosophical proof or confession of faith or theological tract but story. (Hey, Scot, this reminds me of Parakeet too!)

Story is messy. It gets told from different points of view, it seems inconsistent at times, it is not rigid but fluid. It has, as the writer notes a high tolerance for different versions of the same event. I chuckle to myself and think about calling this post Torah 'n Me, because I realize I drive my husband crazy by a similar ancient-Near-Eastern approach to reality (it looks like I'm thinking inconsistently, Dear, but I'm just the Torah type!)

I close my eyes and think about a quote I read in A Profound Weakness...

... images of the birth of Jesus tend to focus on symbolic, formulaic aspects of the event because realism isn't essential in promoting story. Realism puts an event in time and place but doesn't necessarily point to the 'subplot', to the invisible. p.52

On the night before Christmas, we too will put realism aside. We'll think on the sweetness of God not with treatises but by biting into challah bread dipped in honey. We'll raise our makeshift tent (sukkah) and participate in the story of God's people seeking respite (the way the Israelites found respite in God in the desert). Each person will have a chance to sit in the shadows of the tent, smell and taste that bread, which a child will hand them, saying...

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life, and you shall dwell in the house of the LORD your whole life long. Ps 23

And the one who receives the bread will say, Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O LORD, faithful God. (Ps 31:5)

Each of us will bring our secret and not-so-secret stories to the tent. Knowing me, I'll close my eyes, feel the moment like it is the warmth of the sun shining, regardless of storms. And I'll feel bundled, like a child listening to a story before good night. Before good night and, in this season, before Merry Christmas.

POETRY FRIDAY:
RAP: Ache of Advent by L.L. at High Calling Blogs
Poetry Friday: Oasis at Erica Hale's
Six Christmas Poems at GoodWordEditing


Christ Child watercolor by Salvador Dali. Photo by L.L. Barkat.

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Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Thanksgiving: Farmers, Slaves and Stories

Birches in Fall

I'm thinking about Thanksgiving with...

Pennies and a Big Blue Sky over at High Calling Blogs

and Marching Farmers, Homeless Slaves over at Christianity Today.

Also, it's not too late for you to join the festivities and add your post to the Thanksgiving Celebration. On that note, I wanted to share this little clip I found in my outdoor journal, while I was working on God in the Yard this past weekend:

Why should anyone care about another person's story? If it is told well, and honestly, one might find oneself there, perhaps even find God. And that is a blessing indeed, if it brings a measure of truth and healing or inspiration and challenge.

To this, I've been reading our Thanksgiving Celebration stories, where I've found myself, found God, been moved, blessed. I've also tried to make space for others in my heart and mind, which seems to me a form of hospitality— listening to stories where I don't find myself but I find Other and God-near-Other...

Stories of sudden loss and shocking loss. Reflections on thanks unsent, then sent. Moments of surprising birth, dealing with displacement and finding joy despite financial loss. And, last but not least, an aside on potential turkey extraction.

I wonder if all hospitality actually begins with listening to the other's story, taking others seriously, as the Message translation says somewhere in Psalms...

In any case, today I'm grateful for you and your stories. Happy Thanksgiving, friends.


Fall Trees painting by Saima Barkat. Used with permission.

RELATED:
LL's Thanksgiving: Out-Take, an unpublished section of the CT article
LL's Grace Table, a reflection from the little woods

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