out of the mouths of babes

This semester I took on a new job, a job I was hesitant to accept - nervous to begin. I agreed to serve as a companion for two young girls with autism. Although the high hourly rate may have been one of the first things to catch my attention, I also knew that this kind of work would teach me much and probably serve as good experience for an aspiring social worker. Beyond that, I wanted to learn, to expand my knowledge of disabilities and how they affect people. I wanted to practice loving people very different from me in some ways. (and in other ways, just the same as me.) 

So last Saturday morning I found myself driving to work in the rain. I did not feel like working, it was Saturday after all - normally I spend Saturdays in the library. I did not feel prepared for the mental and emotional toll of working with the girls. As I opened the door I was told that J had gotten sick and only L and I would be spending time together that morning. The three hours ahead of us seemed like an eternity until their mom informed me that she wanted me to take L to the library. With an uneven mix of anxiety and gratitude, I accepted the challenge. Prior to that morning the only time I had gone out with L in "public" was to stroll to the beach and dig in the sand. Thinking of going somewhere like the library with her stressed me out - I worried about how L would act, I worried about being able to make decisions, and shamefully, I worried about how others would react to us. Nonetheless, we drove to the library. 

A space opened up directly in front of the library and I was glad that we would not have to walk far at all across one way streets in the rain. As we approached the door to the children's room I quickly noticed signs advertising a special event celebrating Dr. Seuss for that very Saturday. My heart sank, I had no idea how L would respond to a crowd full of people, as loud noises and chaotic spaces can stress her out. Walking into the main section of the library however, it was apparent that for the time being the celebration was taking place in another room. Filled again with gratitude, L and I sat down at a table to color. (one of her favorite activities.) 

We colored for a short time and then a little girl and her father wandered over to join us. Again, my heart turned in my chest. My mind anticipated questions that I would not know how to answer. What if she asks why L does not speak? Or what if she asks why she is not coloring inside the lines? Or why her hand occasionally shakes? How do I explain a condition that I really know little about, let alone how to articulate it in language that a child would understand?

Just as quickly, my fears disappeared. "What's your name?" asked the little girl in the blue hello kitty shirt. I told her our names and from there the conversation soared, "What's your favorite color, L? I like purple and white. Do you like blue, L? What about red? My dad likes grey..." On and on she chatted with us and not once did she ask why I responded for L, or why L did not make eye contact or seem engaged. She did not question anything. When L grew tired of coloring we got up to walk around the library and not soon after we left we heard a little voice behind us, "L! You forgot your picture!" The blue-shirted girl held out the picture with great concern, not wanting L to leave without it. Later, she ran around to find us again saying, "WAIT! I have to show L my picture!"

This interaction with the little blue shirted girl fills me with such hope. She did not see L as someone to be treated differently, instead she saw her as someone valuable with thoughts, ideas, and favorites. She did not approach the conversation hesitantly or with uncertainty, she approached L as a human being - as a friend. This whole experience has had my mind reeling - I am thinking about humanity and beauty, value and worth. 

It occurred to me that so often we attach value to people based on how well they speak, or what they accomplish... we define ourselves by our actions, or how well we dress, what grades we get, or how many places we have traveled to.

But we are not our actions, our words, or our attitudes. We are not the clothes we wear or the thoughts we think. We are not our to-do lists or our hobbies. 

We are not valuable because of the labels people tack onto us. 

(and we tack onto ourselves.) 

No. 

We are valuable because we are made in the image of God, fearfully and wonderfully - and the very fact that our heart is still beating, means that God is preserving our bodies another day and that is worth celebrating. Celebrating with gusto. Fully and lavishly. We are valuable because we are alive.

These are words I do not claim to understand completely, but I am trying to let them turn over in my mind until they are engraved upon my soul, written on my hands, seasoned in every conversation. I want to learn to see people, all people, as treasures. I want to enter conversations knowing that people are fragile and delicate and full of beauty untold - that they have favorites, (favorite colors, favorite foods, favorite moments...) they have ideas and thoughts that could change the world if I let them. I want to live a life that welcomes other people to be who they are created to be  - and not who I want them to be or think they ought to be. 

So little blue shirted girl, thank you. Thank you for re-teaching me a lesson I needed to hear. Thank you for filling me with hope, and for helping in the transformational process of my heart from stone to flesh. 

the invitation

This week I remembered the following poem as I have been re-reading Henri Nouwen's book Reaching Out and thinking a lot about solitude and loneliness. The last line is the one that originally drifted into my mind again, but the whole poem never ceases to inspire me. It was written after Oriah attended a party and found herself answering all of the "usual questions" all night long - where did you go to school? what did you study? where do you live? etc. The whole situation felt empty, as though she were just going through the motions of relationships. Wanting anything but that, she sat down and penned this poem in attempts to articulate her thoughts and emotions.

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! 

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day,and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

by
Oriah Mountain Dreamer

black gold

surprise! an update!

I really have no excuse for the long hiatus. To put it simply, I haven't been writing. I haven't been thinking very hard. I haven't been reflecting and processing like usual. It's really quite embarrassing. It's strange and detrimental, this I am finding... so here I am, back at it again with tiny thoughts and words.

You see, Lent has begun - and in conversations about Lent I have been inspired not to just eliminate things from my life, but to add things - and one thing I am adding is writing. Each day I will write at least one paragraph about a significant moment of the day. (maybe it doesn't seem significant at first, but I will write about it anyway.) This way I will re-train myself to think deeply about the things I am experiencing, the places I'm going, the people I'm meeting. It used to feel like second nature, but somehow I have gotten out of the habit. 

Although today I am including my first attempt, I am not going to share the writing I do from each day. I am hopeful however, that this will also help me keep up with this blog a little bit better. 

Before I get to that, first this:

The other day I stumbled upon a letter I had written to a friend last spring. In it I expressed this gratitude for days being slow processes - where the sun rises slowly over a course of hours: first gracing the earth with its presence in the form of a magical and subtle glow, followed by that giant orange ball rising from the horizon that leisurely makes its way across the sky as the day stretches on until just as slowly it sinks below the edge of the earth (as we see it, of course it's not really the sunset worldwide. our sunset is the sunrise for the other half of the world.) I told her that my heart was grateful that days do not start abruptly, thankful that God does not start our days with the switch of a spotlight in our tired eyes...granted, often times I miss the start of the day..., but I am still thankful that days are processes, and not flashes of extremes. As I read this, my heart yearned for thoughts seasoned with such gratitude for things both big and little. These days I feel like I have been running, running, running. I have made no time to appreciate things like sunrises and sunsets, days that stretch on in a nice process as opposed to the switch of a light. For this I am convicted. 

On the first day of Lent I went to Applestreet Farm...and this is what I wrote afterwards. 

This morning I found myself shoveling out a chicken coop, a new experience for me. I ducked my head to get into their home and found it much more spacious than I anticipated. After chasing all but the roosting chickens out the door, we slowly began to dig through the inches upon inches of chicken crap. Caitlin left, gagging - Sam had his nose in his sweatshirt...but somehow the stench did not get to me. I remembered bike rides in Virginia past smelly, smelly chicken houses that did make me gag...somehow however, this coop did not repulse me. (or my nose. :) ) As I shoveled I thought, and even said aloud, "What a fitting activity for the first day of Lent..." a tangible reminder of the crap that saturates our lives, our dung that keeps us from being free... our habits that hinder us and become normal so we forget how terrible and stifling they are until we let someone take a shovel to them, exposing what is beneath. 

But God is in the business of redemption and even crap is redeemed...in fact, chicken crap is often referred to as "black gold" because it nourishes compost piles and plants so well. That smelly stuff is coveted by soil nationwide. And so perhaps the beginning of this season of Lent may mark the start of me allowing God to take a shovel to my soul- to slowly uncover the rotting crap that is prohibiting me from living fully. May he redeem the parts of me in hiding, afraid of what oxygen might do to them - and in return, may I be like "black gold," bringing life more fully to those I come into contact with... amen. 

the world is a playground

I have not been doing a very good job at blogging this semester. If you are a faithful reader, I apologize. Words are hard to come by and honestly, my thoughts are jumbled. I have far too much to say and not enough all at once. These days my mind muses over communication, truth, and honesty. I have been floored by how mediocre communication is what the world survives with (rather than thriving...)  - and only since living in this intentional community have I learned the importance of excellent communication skills. I am thinking often about speech and the weight of words, as well as what it means to listen well and genuinely care about what others have to say. (and not just listen to what you want them to say.) I am learning much about myself and the role I play in a community. Hopefully soon I will have more coherent thoughts and eloquent sentences, but for now - here's a glimpse of life lately:

(an excerpt after the della mae show)

In 5 chairs we sat in the corner enveloped in a sea of glorious music. Five women on stage crafted harmonies and pieced together sounds and instruments that fit into each other like the most perfect mosaic. My mouth consistently turned upward into a smile while my yellow boots tapped happily. 

The first snowflakes of the season accompanied the last song.

Life is so good. 

(scrawled after a perfect thursday slumber party, thursdays are the new friday.)

I awake on the porch, the air is brisk and I am snuggled up in a line of friends. As I stumble inside rubbing my sleepy eyes, Sam is already at the counter preparing to make breakfast for our tired guests. He makes coffee; I boil water for tea and pull the crepe batter out of the refrigerator. (left over from breakfast for dinner the night prior) Our friends come in one by one and we eat and wake up slow. After breakfast Claire, Sam, and I go for a walk. We stop to say hello to the swans before going to the secret passageway to the ocean. Claire loves it; Sam takes pictures. Time seems to stop as we scramble over rocks and listen to the crashing waves. I clamber to the top of the jagged precipice and let the autumnal breeze wash over my face. I stare intently at the white foam forming little peaks around the island and my mind drifts to Ernest Shackleton and 400+ days at sea. The sun shines down graciously as we scan the scene for treasure. My glance pauses on tidal pools; Sam finds 2 buoys while Claire hides rocks in her pocket. Just before we enter the path for home we find a see-saw, a log placed perfectly on a stone.

The world is a playground.

four days, and still my mind reels. 

driving between homes is draining,

yet satisfying.

the grey skies nestle snugly around the autumnal colors

brilliant red and vibrant yellows,

(the yellow leaves still last the longest.) 

to my right a black cat scurries in the grass.

beside me speeding,

a moving truck resembling a haphazard wagon

pulled by a hasty child.

three deer chew contentedly on a grassy hillside snack,

while many of their friends lie dead and cold inches from my tires.

The sky bursts in deep pink cotton candy glory,

swirled together with blissful strokes,

refusing to let the weekend come to a close without one

final reminder of beauty and goodness in this world

so broken. 

missing the sierras

(an excerpt from trip.)

Today we set up our last tarp home. The next time we pick up our packs we will be carrying them away from the majesty that is the Sierra Nevadas. We will walk away from the dust that fills out pours day after day, from the glacial lakes and snow capped mountains. We'll say goodbye to early bed times and twiggy fires, to boulder fields and debrief sessions. Away we will walk from long, hard days followed by simple evenings of food and sleep. No longer will we practice being CLODS together, nor will we anticipate caches like Christmas...no more class outside or garbage bag whiteboards - we will trade in our back packs for bedrooms, our stoves for a kitchen, our tarps for a roof. In two days we trade silence for noise, fresh air for pollution, conversation for technology...but we also trade B.O. for perfume, hand sanitizer for soap and water, cold streams for hot showers, and new sprouted relationships for deeper roots. I am thankful that although the journey through this place is ending, the journey with these people is still just beginning. Challenges may present themselves, but I am thankful that I get to walk through these next 3 months with these 11 people. With them I have been pleasantly surprised...

To say I will miss this lifestyle is an understatement...

"Man did not weave the web of life,

he is merely a strand of it." 

(from Chief Seattle's Letter.) 

i am a contradiction.

a pillar of thought and creativity stands in the kitchen,

a homemade hammock hangs from the beams. 

(strategically placed directly in front of the television, 

testifying that we do not often sit and stare at that box.) 

an "exposure tally" keeps track of the sleeping outside

competition...

a basket continually overflowing with local fresh produce,

Nutella always on the shelf

a guitar sits patiently next to the woodstove,

with "the music bag" just in front waiting for some creative hands...

dance parties in the kitchen,

read aloud time at night..

this is home. 

this i love. 

anything i say about this semester will be an understatement. any adjective i attempt to attach to it to describe its greatness will prove insufficient. i feel like a spoiled little child, so much so that it hurts. i love this community of people more than words can say. after dreaming, praying, and thinking about living in an intentional community for years, i am finally experiencing it. i am experiencing and learning why it is challenging and so easily idealized. (which is the one thing i wanted so desperately to learn.) i am learning much about myself, my tendencies, my habits and how i communicate with others. i am learning about perception of others. i am learning what it means to have such an intentional and integrated life. (meaning, these people that i live with - not only are we in the same classes every day, but we're also in the same class of learning how to live together. we learn in our loft together as we discuss John Dewey's theories of education and how to best educate the world, but we also are constantly learning as we have house meetings and discuss problems, as we decide whose responsibility it is to pick up the CSA share or who started the dishwasher at 11pm and hindered some sleeping habits of those below. (definitely my fault) this house is our classroom; this world is our classroom...) i digress. 

this semester has been such a collision of all of my most favorite things. so many things i am passionate about are shaping my daily life and it is way too good to be true: adventure, food  (sustainable purchases!), intentional community, cultivating a home, making music...one of the most striking things to me however, is this contrast between the first month of this semester that was spent wandering through the Sierra Nevadas, and now - this daily life we spend in this mansion in Rockport, Massachusetts living intentionally together in the same place and learning as much as we can about each other, the world, and our futures as outdoor educators. 

i'm realizing something about myself this semester: i thrive on adventure. i thrive on novelty and new experiences. this is partially why i loved backpacking in the sierras so much - it was new and exciting, somewhat risky and dangerous, but way too wonderful to pass up. i love going on adventures and exploring. i love trying new things. 

but at the very same time, with the same exact passion, i crave stability and sameness. 

i long for roots and familiarity in the sense of living in one place and knowing your neighbors, in the sense of being in a place long enough to impact it. (a very long time.) (this desire for home definitely snuck with me on our backpacking trip as every night when we would reach our destination i would treat it like home, (and call it home) and on the rare occasion that we spent two nights in one location - well, that was a super home.)

this semester has granted me the opportunity to explore both of those passions so thoroughly and tangibly; still i love both. 

so i am wondering how to live a life that holds both of these ideas in healthy tension. i'm not sure if it's possible - and sometimes i am not even sure why i am studying outdoor education if this is the case, but i'm enjoying the journey and learning so much that i am not concerned with the destination at this point. sometimes the journey is most important. (a lot of times we get so caught up with the destination that we miss the journey.) 

so until i figure this out, or until God points me in a clear direction and reveals to me how he wants to use all of these (seemingly) contradicting passions, i'll keep learning and seeking to live hospitably in each new adventure. i want to live in such a way that makes others feel at home. i want to host the thoughts and perspectives of those around me well, to be a presence that welcomes others to be who they are, not who they think i want them to be. i want to live in a way that tells others that they belong.

"Stability is a commitment to trust God not in an ideal world, but in the battered and bruised world we know. If real life with God can happen anywhere at all, then it can happen here among the people whose troubles are already evident to us." 

Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove in The Wisdom of Stability

somanythoughts. 

in other news, it's a rainy thursday. 

tonight i am going to a concert in boston. (finally! listening to live music again! i've been longing to go to a show for quite some time.) tomorrow tricia, sam and i are escaping to the white mountains for a quick over night hiking excursion and then returning in time saturday evening for Raf's 21st birthday dance party. life is good, friends. life is way too good. 

finally, these 3 books i recommend:

The Wilderness World of John Muir

The Wisdom of Stability: Rooting Faith in a Mobile Culture 

The Phantom Tollboth 

readthemreadthemreadthem !

i like the ocean best in the fall.

Like the grey ocean nestled between the shorelines vacant and calm, yet overflowing...

so my heart lies mysteriously within my chest, dangerously full and yet not a crashing wave of warning.

I have way too much to say, 

and nothing at all. 

Until I can gather my own thoughts - check this out! 

Food has never tasted so good.