The Quietness, Rumi and a Stack of Books

Last night, I lit candles in my room, shut the door and grabbed the stack of books I am working through. Madeleine decided to pass out from exhaustion at 6 p.m. (because, we all know, being 4 is exhausting). I had a sudden wide open evening. A movie watched. Evening chores finished. A white blanket tucked into the hardwood sleigh bed frame was a retreat. So the books sat, each tucked with a bookmark made from scraps of paper or drawings that my daughter delivers to me all day long. Each partially read, half-consumed, some underlined, some dog-eared, maybe one uncracked completely.

How the Irish Saved Civilization
Till We Have Faces
The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats
East of Eden
The Essential Rumi

Poetry falls into my lap often lately and I don't deny it. I don't find it boring or plotless, rather it seems to help me tell the story of my own life when I seem to have lost all of the words.

I feel poetry in the mountainside and in the ice cold swimming hole water. I feel it in silent gaps of conversation, in pine cones ripped apart in our hands, in stars that hang low by quiet summer campfires.

So I work my way through each, tiny morsels of words and stories, all one giant narrative somehow interconnected in my head. This morning, I'm cracking open Rumi again. Whether he meant to or not, Rumi had a grasp on Grace and in this poem, I see grace and mercy and a reminder that "Quietness is the surest sign that you've died." I am prone to try and make myself better, and sometimes I hear the Spirit close, saying: "Be quiet. Let your old self die. Let her go. She is exhausting you with perfectionism, judgement, lists of un-met expectations and mental thrashings. She is frantically running. You have no business associating with her anymore." And by the end, I am humming Sara Groves' "You are the Sun". Taking some kind of comfort in acknowledging that I am the moon with no light of my own. Still You have made me to shine.

 

Quietness by Rumi
Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You're covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you've died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.

The speechless full moon
comes out now.

My daughter is awake by sunrise. The quiet space of my bed and stack of books tumbled into some half-open by my pillow, some on the floor, and a four-year-old suddenly appearing at my side, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

I want to flip the script, I think. I want us to be born into color daily, swinging in hammocks and resting under stars, climbing mountains and understanding more about how small we are in the beautiful and breathtaking grand scheme of things.

The here-and-now mountain is a tiny piece of a piece
of straw
blown off into emptiness.
—Rumi

Mondays are for Rambles: Death, Rodeos and Basil.

Fresh off the bookshelf :: Death. It's not something I give to much time to… mostly because once someone hands me the topic of death, there seems to be a whole lack of words on my part. A little bit of unease. A little bit of "Why are you reminding me of this right now?" And probably some, "Jesus, come quickly" prayers. I read this book in five days. I don't know if you've been paying attention, but 'round here, books don't get read that fast. (See the stack of half-read books on my night to-read bookshelf.) This book felt like I was sitting down with friends who had a lot of really amazing, beautiful, interesting, useful and useless pieces of information to add to the discussion. And two people who just don't know much more than I do. In fact, I think the reason I tore through it in five days was that a part of me was hoping maybe they had landed on some kind of answer. Which, of course, is why they wrote the book. Death seems to bring a whole lot of unanswerable questions. And music, well, music is how some of us deal. We all want some peace. Or solutions. Or cures. Or a more clear picture of what hope and heaven and hereafter looks like.

And if I'm going to be honest (which I like to be as much as possible) the content seemed to bring a dark cloud over my week. I spent a good part of that week feeling like life was slipping, and perhaps meaningless. Not meaningless in the "I've lost all hope" sort of way.But meaningless in the Ecclesiastes sort of way. The realization that we're just a breath and a short blip and there's not a whole lot that really, actually matters in this life.

Except for love. And Grace.
The story of Jesus.
Redemption.
And of course, good music.

So you should read it. That's all.

Just watched :: I watched this earlier today. As a single mom of a wild heathen rebel brilliant strong-willed child, I often feel myself trying to climb the slippery walls of parenthood. Like, seriously, how am I supposed to do this and make it out alive? Questions get harder, attitudes become certainly more directed toward *ahem* the authority, and I'm at war with myself, my beliefs & my heart. So, when 20 minute videos like this pop up online, you better believe I'm wiping away tears and listening close and begging my daughter to let me finish listening because it means maybe something will remind me that I NEED THE GOSPEL if I'm going to finish this race well. So, if you have 20 minutes, breathe in some rest and grace and watch and listen, and we can cheer each other on as fellow rescuers and sinners alike.

Community :: Friendships and relationships with other people are hard. It only makes me wonder how hard it is to be a friend to me. Do you ever feel like life holds up a giant mirror for you to see all the flaws of yourself? Well, I feel it. And that's a whole other blog that's coming soon, I suppose.

In the kitchen :: Fresh basil is so wonderfully aromatic. And strawberries that haven't been all beefed up are the best too. I'm so thankful for farmer's markets that carry both of these. I explained recently to my sister that feeling of "When is life going to start?" Like, when am I going to have the time to cook all those recipes in Julia Child's cookbook? Or when will I have the time to grow a window herb garden? What about all that jam I promised myself I'd prepare this summer?

Oh life. You keep handing me baskets of strawberries and pots of basil and I have only the time to take a photo of you and hope you don't rot before I have use of you.

Weather :: In the summer, it gets hot and then it rains. Push rewind and repeat. As a kid, I used to don a rain jacket and boots to sit under the water-logged pines behind my house while the summer rains soaked the earth. We have neither water-logged pines nor a forest to wander, but puddles? Oh there are plenty of those. So that's what my lunch break looks like. Puddles and splashes of raindrops in my lukewarm coffee.

Free time :: When I work at home all week, I take whatever chance I can to get out of these walls for fresh air, and whatever else the 'burbs around here have hidden away. So, last week we went to the rodeo. I was happy. The end.

The Last Thing You Are Clinging To

When the brilliant ethicist John Kavanaugh went to work for three months at "the house of the dying" in Calcutta, he was seeking a clear answer as to how best to spend the rest of his life. On the first morning there he met Mother Teresa. She asked, "And what can I do for you?" Kavanaugh asked her to pray for him.

"What do you want me to pray for?" she asked. He voiced the request that he had borne thousands of miles from the United States. 

"Pray that I have clarity." 

She said firmly, "No, I will not do that." When he asked her why, she said, "Clarity is the last thing you are clinging to and must let go of." When Kavanaugh commented that she always seemed to have the clarity he longed for, she laughed and said, "I have never had clarity; what I have always had is trust. So I will pray that you trust God."

— Brennan Manning, "Ruthless Trust", pg. 5 

33 Books On My Shelves.

I'm a reader. And a writer, I suppose. Though to claim that title for myself seems silly. Like when a little girl says she's a princess. That kind of silly. (Also, you should read this.)

Anyway, I digress.

I try to have a rule in my home that I don't put books on display that I haven't read, or have at least partially read. I just don't want to be that person who has a ton of books and when asked, "Have you read this?" I guffaw and say, "What? No. No I haven't read any of those."

I don't want to be that person.

Sometimes I break that rule. Sometimes I put a book out that I want to read. And it nags me every day until I finally break down and pick it up, adding it to the long list of must reads.

So today I'm giving you a snapshot of the books on my shelves, and why I think you should take the time to read one or two of them. Also, I try to not clean much when I take pictures like these so you're getting the most realistic view of my home. Dust, dirt, cords, clutter, all of it. Yes, I'm really about to do this.

1. Shepherding a Child's Heart — this book has been really influential to me as a parent. I haven't finished it, but it's dog-eared. And when I can, I pick it up and start where I left off.
2. Little House in the Big Woods — we are slowly making our way through this, chapter by chapter, sometimes page by page. Every time I pick it up, I feel like we are bringing the country into this small, urban apartment. If you haven't read these books, go back and join Laura in the frontier. It's worth it.
3. Other People's Love Letters —A friend of mine bought this book for me a few years ago. I feel a little guilty when I read some of these. But then again, these letters were published. In a book. To read. People love in different ways. And there are two or three in there that make my heart melt and believe in romance again.
4. Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass — There are a few pieces in this collection that are simple, beautiful, short, and perfect. ("That shadow my likeness that goes to and fro seeking a livelihood, chattering, chaffering, How often I find myself standing and looking at where it flits...")
5. Love Poems of Elizabeth and Robert Browning —Want some swoon worthy words? Look no further. This collection between Elizabeth and Robert make me believe in true love again. Lovely lovely honest love. I also read it and think, "Every man needs to read how Robert loved Elizabeth." It's true, I do.
6. Daughters of Destiny — my sister gave this book to me years ago. It's one of those collections filled with anecdotes, stories, quotes. This is the kind I pick up every now and then to say, "Yes. There are those who've gone before me. And they were beautiful."
7. Thoreau's Walden and Civil Disobedience — Walden. I'm not a transcendentalist, but Walden stirred my thinking when I first read it. Even still, I can relate to Thoreau and I often wonder how he'd fit in today's society. And when I want to run away and live in a cabin in the woods, I pick this one up.
8. An Unquiet Mind — A psychiatrist wrote this book about her manic-depressive disorder. It was interesting to read her research, and even more so intriguing to hear her medical assessment of her own condition.
9. Emily Dickinson's Selected Works — Really. Now. Must I tell you why you should read her?
10. Uncle Tom's Cabin — I have never read it. It's true. This copy is a really early edition, (one of the faux first editions, after the real first edition.) It sits there. Unread. Old. 1898 or so.

11. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies — A birthday gift. Yes I'm reading it. Yes it's strange. Yes I'm enjoying it.
12. Pride and Prejudice — The real deal. Always the best.
13. A Perfectly Kept House is the Sign of a Misspent Life — Best house/decorating/hospitality book I've ever read.
14. The Children of Hurin — On loan from a boy who is adding books to my list of things to read. This one is next.
15. WB Yeats' Collected Works —Irish poet. Poetry surrounds me.
16. Into the Wild —You know it.
17. Irish America — I learned a lot about myself and my family while reading this book. So much, that I e-mailed the author. Thanked her. She wrote me back. Said thanks for reading. It was a lovely exchange.
18. Give Them Grace — This book is helping to mold the way I parent through the truth of the Gospel.

19. Northanger Abbey —The first Austen book I ever read.
20. Stargirl — Sometimes I feel like Stargirl. If you want to know what I mean, read the book.
21. Farmer Boy —Book two of the Laura Ingalls Wilder series. We will make our way through this slowly after Little House in the Big Woods.
22. Ruthless Trust —Brennan Manning has been one of the most influential writers in my life over the past seven years. No one else laid out the Gospel and Grace so clearly for me like he did in Ragamuffin Gospel and in this book.
23. The Sorrows of Young Werther — Recommended by my best friend's husband, this book was depressing, sad, and beautiful. And now I recommend it to people. (Sidenote: I'm pretty sure this was the first book written in diary form.) Don't say I didn't warn you.
24. Hinds Feet on High Places —I am much afraid. Again, don't know what I mean? Read it.

25. Mere Christianity — I remember the day I read the chapter "Time and Beyond Time" in my bedroom when I lived in Madrid, NY. Some words stick with you. That's the month this book was added to my permanent shelf.
26. All My Friends are Dead — Darkest, funniest little book. And I liked it before Urban Outfitters sold it. So take that hipsters.
27. e.e. cummings's selections —oh ee. i never tire of him.
28. Gift from the Sea —I read this while at the ocean last year. It was fitting, and brought grace to places I was striving. I love how the Gospel can shout through words that don't even intend to deliver the Gospel. But when the Truth is at the center, it seeps into everything.
29. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall —I tore through this book when I was 14 or 15. It may have been the gateway book to classic literature, if I remember correctly.
30. Passion and Purity —Elisabeth Elliot is a woman I have always greatly admired, and her words never fall short of challenging me and calling me to live at a more beautiful standard as a woman of God. This book was handed to me by mom when I turned 13. Never has left my shelf.
31. Walking on Water —I remember my other best friend's husband saying that every artist should read this book. I concur.
32. Ben Hur, a Tale of Christ —Confession: Never read it. But it's there, just the same.
33. One Thousand Gifts —We all know Ann. I am so grateful she had the time/energy/heart/vision/grace to write this. It has altered the way I live.

So there you go... 33 books from my shelves. Reading anything good lately? Drop me a note here and let me know!

Ohh. That's Where I Put That.

I have this old copy of The Catcher in the Rye from high school.

Sure, it may have been banned in some classrooms, but Mr. Clayton took a few of us aside our junior year and walked us through Holden's story.  We graciously accepted with eager, curious hands. I'm not sure it was even so rebellious as it's reputation suggested, but that didn't matter.

It was The Catcher in the Rye for heaven's sake.

And on graduation day, after Pomp and Circumstance had echoed into the rafters, and classmates were now saying goodbye, Clayton met me in the hallway and handed me an old, beat-up copy with this inscription.

Sometimes I forget why I love to write. I honest to goodness forget that it gives me a voice when I've lost words. When I lose sight of why, what, who and the goal. He didn't give me this book because I loved it. It wasn't my most favorite book in school. It wasn't the one that changed my life. He gave it to me because he got me. He knew my journey was just beginning. That I was asking alot of questions. He read my words every day. He knew that writing was part of my journey. And that I needed this to remind me.

When I find this, I remember her. That 18-year-old, bright-eyed, naive, nothings-gonna-stop-me girl. I remember her. And in some ways, weep and mourn for her, while still celebrating where my Father has brought me today.

When I find this, I remember that I'm still silently wandering some streets. And that's ok. Give me words and I'll find my voice.

Thanks Clayton. You're still my favorite teacher.