Thanksgiving

Remember God’s bounty in the year.  String the pearls of His favor.  Hide the dark parts, except so far as they are breaking out in light!  Give this one day to thanks, to joy, to gratitude! 
~Henry Ward Beecher

Berrylicious

Another beauty from my trip last weekend–honestly, there isn’t enough time in the universe to express how full and wonderful that one day was. This is a little tree not far off the highway as it runs through Chewelah, WA–a tree that stands behind an old, hideous factory of some sort, yet still manages to convey such Old World charm and elegance. Somehow, the bright orange-red berries speak to me of both Autumn’s brilliance and the bright tones of Christmas. It is a beautiful merging of the seasons, a luscious feast of color. I saw dozens of these trees that day, but this was my favorite one–every limb heavy with fruit, so full of life despite its dismal surroundings. And then, coming closer, seeing the graceful curve of the boughs as the berries cascade down, each cluster a universe unto itself, yet surrounded by hundreds of kindred spirits.

Then, standing right up under the tree, surrounded by the tumble of branch, berry, and curling leaf, the colors sharp against the weary gray sky…absolutely delicious. Exactly the kind of thing my heart is always yearning for: the splendor hiding behind the shabby exterior, the extraordinary born out of the mundane.

 

Happiness

We tend to seek happiness when happiness is actually a choice.

Apologies for the whited-out corners on the picture…this is a gigantic canvas selling at World Market, and I would so, so very much love to put it up in my future craft room at the new house, but it’s a tad pricey, so I had to take a photo so I could keep it around…

The Sentinel

After a gray and overcast day, the skies stooping low and pressing in with a tangible weight; after the drive north to the Colville Valley, up into the mountains, down the Springdale-Hunters road past the skeletons of old barns and the house collapsed by the heaviness of snow,

past the flock of 100 or more turkeys and the herd of frolicking deer, past the golden needles of the larch trees draped with black moss and the orchard of naked trees still laden with fruit;

after the skies emptied above the convergence of the Spokane and Colombia Rivers and the distant mountains painted with the sunset’s sweet glow,

there is this…

the sentinel, the proud warrior, the keeper of strength, the giver of hope. And all the way back home I listen to the music of my childhood, Petra and The Imperials and Keith Green, and feel the lyrics drop straight through my soul like a plumbline of solid gold, holding this image in my heart and crying silently because I know it for truth now: I am beating this illness, and my heart has come home.

November SPC 1

When I heard that the Self Portrait Challenge was on hiatus indefinitely, I was heartbroken. I enjoyed the creative challenge so much when I last year, but when my sciatica struck I was gone for so long…and I returned to SPC full of excitement just in time to see that it was inactive. So imagine my joy upon discovering that SPC continues on in a Flickr group! This month’s theme is Upside-Down, and here is my humble offering, taken while I lay sprawled out in the physical therapist’s office in a very awkward position with electrodes sending tingly electricity to my sciatic nerve. Shortly before this, the therapist beamed infrared lasers into the same area. Very interesting. Three cheers for the medical establishment and the health insurance that makes it affordable to laser and electrify my nerve–I think it might be working!

Rediscovering Hope

I am teaching myself how to hope again. There was a time, not so very long ago, when I was able to face adversity with faith and strength. I did not feel particularly strong, but I did not collapse under the weight of my pain. These days, largely due to my PCOS and how it messes with my hormones, which in turn messes with my emotions, my default reaction is panic. This is something I am very ashamed of, but have felt powerless to stop. I have spent so much of the last three and a half years depressed, panicky, and high-strung that I believed I had lost myself entirely. I started this blog to try and pull myself out of that, to force myself to notice the good things around me and concentrate on them instead. And it has helped considerably: the past year has pulled me beyond my internal world into life again, and I am so grateful. But this sickness inside me is powerful and deep-rooted, and I still struggle all too often to not spiral back into that darkness, and I still lose that battle more often than I should. But then, this past week, something wonderful and unexpected happened… For the first time in years, I stopped myself in the middle of my panic and said, “Yes, this horrible thing has happened to me and yes, it’s scary, but look…the world is still here and it is still beautiful. God is still here, and He is good.” I watched the sun set from the top floor of the tallest parking garage in town, with a near 360-degree view of the city, and told myself this over and over instead of listening to the panicked voice in my mind. And I didn’t feel any better exactly, but I didn’t go into meltdown either. And would you believe that this is the third time in two weeks that I have been able to do something similar? A couple of Saturdays ago, I did have a huge meltdown, the kind that I can’t shake off for days or even weeks afterward. But then I made myself calm down–not ompletely, but enough to go on with my day. And it turned out to be a wonderful day: a drive over the mountains and through the valleys north of Spokane, and every new sight was a balm to my soul. Because no matter what was happening inside me, the world was still there and it was too beautiful to ignore.  This Sunday, I was quite depressed over the change of seasons. October was such a sunny, clear, and beautiful month, but the moment November hit it was cloudy, gray, and drizzling. I could feel Winter looming over me, a dismal and frigid shadow. But we went to the park anyway, and I discoverd that it wasn’t nearly as cold or damp as I had imagined, and that all the brilliant, lively colors of Autumn were still in abundance. And then I saw my heart in a leaf, and there it was again: the world is still beautiful, and God is so good. So here I am today, after an emotional rollercoaster week, with a heart so mixed up I couldn’t possibly tell you what I am feeling now, but finally–finally–with the hope that I am learning how to hope once again.

At least I got a sticker

Turned in my ballot, then went and got myself The Great American Burger along with All-American fries and a Coke. And that is all I have to say about that.

Another song for Autumn

For the harvest

For apple trees burdened with fruit

For golden flowers stretching their last glory to the skies

For the fuzzy, white-gold needles of the larch tree

For sienna-striped leaves curling tightly into death

For brave, bright berries that carry new life

For mountains turning gold above the brittle brown valley

For fiery bushes hidden by the path

For rivers still as glass in the dying sunlight

For sunsets that set the sky ablaze

For leaves that hold summer and autumn colors intertwined

And for leaves that harbor unexpected shades

I sing of Autumn

Remembering Mexico

This morning, I came to the blogverse with nothing particular to say. Certainly, Mexico was not on my mind at all. But then Carmen brought that lovely country to the front of my mind with such vividity that here I am, thinking of nothing else but Mexico. I took Spanish in school for 6 years (must admit, I’m really rusty now) and went to Mexico three times, each one a very different but entirely wonderful experience. How funny that my experiences of Mexico involved many of the more unattractive things–which is, after all, the nature of missions work, no matter what country you go to–and yet, the country still spoke to me so beautifully. And now my heart is so full of those memories, I don’t know what to say, where to begin, how to describe how deeply those three short trips affected me. I could ramble for hours with random memories–the first time I ate sushi was in Mexico, can you believe that?–but instead, here is a poem I wrote several years ago…hopefully, it will speak for me today.

Memories of Mexico

 

Santa Elena

       walk across the rotting rope bridge

over the muddy Rio and it’s just that

easy

          —Texas to Mexico in a dozen quick steps

no ID, no police, nada

I wonder

why don’t more people come through this place?

 

and then 10 miles

in the bed of a black pickup, the metal so hot

I can feel my flesh burn itself numb

and we’re all scared to drink

the Kool-aid

—even in the cities, gringos stick to the bottled stuff

—this is a shantytown

bordertown

lots of dirt, 20 ramshackle shacks

loosely make a community

with 4 public toilets for plumbing

1 chapel, beautiful white-tiled

sparkling

            they take God     seriously    here

 

I walk barefoot over some cactus,

stomp on ants the size of a dime

spend most of my time on the

Other Side of the border

assuming this is my first and last time

 

thank God it isn’t.

 

Reynosa

       what I remember

Most

             —the rain, the rain falling for days

flooding

dirt road turning to chocolatemilk rivers

changing my shirt

so I could play futból

in the chocolatemilk mud

without the niños seeing my bra

I hate sports.

It was the best day of my life.

forgetting the Spanish word for “ball”

getting mud-flecked, my hair so wet and stringy

it matches the dark, dark color

of the pelo of native children who revel in kicking

una pelota around a filthy street

in the rain.

                         next morning, the things the rain uncovered:

a dirty diaper, thick pieces of a bottle of Joya

           other children, playing in the backwash

      of a sewer with the kind of joy American kids reserve for Nintendo

 

Mayra’s face, her tears, my tears

in the light of an 8-foot tall flickering Jesus

dying para todos nuestros pecados

how I love her, reminding me of best friend

from second grade

how I promised her

I’d be back según año

and I don’t even know how to get there.

 

Queretaró

            how mime paint is so thick

so oily, so greasy

that I sweat it from my pores days after

still looking in the mirror

trying to see the gringo in the heart

that fell in love with Mexíco

but answers to an American name.

 

between the two of us, we can say anything in Spanish

apart, we struggle

just like we struggle with our

once-easy friendship:

no lengua es suficiente for our hearts

 

but there are the city hills

that grow in my mind

the farther     away     from them I move

I find things constantly reminding me

—my sister-in-law, a pair of chopsticks,

         wearing all black, bright painted houses:

the primary colors of life

of Mexíco

still tinting the veins beneath my skin.