Lesson learned

I learned a lesson the first week I was in Palestine.  I'd gone with some friends of my friend there to play pool at the InterContinental Hotel in Bethlehem.

Afterward, we drove out to a dusty road on the edge of town, blasting music through the car's speakers while we pulled beer from bottles and I danced with my new American-in-Palestine friend.  At one point, Firas decided he would offer me a drink by pouring beer from his bottle onto my upturned face.  Missing my mouth completely, it flooded my nose and I came up gasping, spitting and coughing.  We all laughed and resumed our dancing.

Moments later I felt the familiar stream of warm blood oozing out of my left nostril.  In the darkness, I tried to wipe it away nonchalantly, turning from the group toward the stone and rebar wall marking the edge of the road and the steep descent down a mountain, silently wishing for miraculously thicker blood than I've ever been known to have.

"Emily, you okay?" Chelsea asked.
"Umm... do you have a tissue?"
"Oh my god! Your nose is bleeding!"
"It's --"
"Oh my god!"
Suddenly Chelsea was rummaging through her purse and Walid his trunk.

"Oh, no. It's okay.  I'll be fine."
"It's because of the beer!"

"No - it's okay." Shyly, I turned away.  Firas appeared by my side with a wad of tissues procured from some helpful friend, placed a hand on the small of my back and immediately began to assist in ebbing the flow of blood from my face the way I would help one of my students.

"I'm okay," I muttered, "It's not the beer, it's --"

"It's not about you!" insisted Firas, exasperated.  Duly I shut up.

I stopped talking so much, stopped trying to prove myself.  I opened my eyes wider, listened harder.  That night I learned the hubbub to find a tissue wasn't about me.  Rather, these new acquaintances saw a person who needed assistance and they gave their utmost.

Now my friend's husband is posting pictures like this:

because this is happening elsewhere in Palestine:

 Read more 

.

I went to visit Bethany in Palestine and within just a couple days felt like I had real friendships there, people I could count on to have fun and who obviously cared deeply for one another and easily and quickly enveloped others into that culture of care.  I listened to stories, laughed aloud, and cried openly.

Now from this distance and in these circumstances I avidly devour every bit of news I can gather about the unfolding events in and around Bethlehem.  My heart and limbs ache to give as selflessly as was modeled unto me; my skin tingles and crawls at the intersection of hope and hopelessness; I weep at my own perceived helplessness.

Breaking Bread

As I scoop fluffy white flour from the 1950's-era canister on my countertop, the white powder dusting my sleeve cuff, my mind travels to the fields adjacent to the farmhouse where my grandparents lived for more than fifty years before they recently moved to town.  That tall, yellow house just off the highway and just north of town was the only consistent house in my semi-nomadic childhood.  Some of my earliest memories include sitting on the back stoop in my Osh Kosh overalls while my grandpa brought me a bucket lamb to feed with a baby bottle full of warm milk.  As he placed the little lamb in my lap and lowered his body to sit beside me, Grandpa would slip his arm around my shoulders to help guide the bottle and manage the squirrelly lamb until the soporific milk took affect.  Somehow even then, I think I knew I was the luckiest girl in the world.

Other times I would pile into the front seat of Grandpa's pick up truck with one or two of my sisters and ride up the hill to the pasture while Grandpa leaned out the window yelling things like, "Whoa, there!" and calling all the cows Bessie.

In the evenings, Grandma would invite us to help prepare the meal.  We would do dishes together while she told funny stories of our mom's youth and caught us up on the neighborhood gossip.  She would bathe us and read aloud any of the children's books we'd selected from the low shelf in the hallway.  And always, from the perimeter of my world there, corn grew up from the rich black soil to tuck me in, holding fast in its rootedness while swishing and swaying with the wind.

"Six," I mumble aloud, enumerating the cups of flour I've piled into the large mixing bowl.  I grasp the grainy wooden spoon in my fist and struggle to mix every bit of flour into the dough that slowly increases to more closely resemble the bread it is becoming.  I scatter one last scoop of flour on the countertop, patting it flat as the landscape of my Kansas childhood, a patchwork of bowing sunflowers and amber waves of wheat.  Glancing across the counter, I half expect to see a child's eyes peering across the surface as I once sat at eye-level across the kitchen table mesmerized by my mom's weathered hands kneading bread dough and making sense out of chaos.  When the eight minutes required to knead a batch of sourdough bread stretched long, I flipped over her giant white mixing bowl, imagining its great domed expanse as the unending sky over our prairie plains as miniscule models of ourselves wandered the surface.  More than any Sunday School lesson she taught or Bible verse I memorized, my mom's all-powerful guiding hands demonstrated the personality of her beloved God.


Two months ago I went to Palestine for three weeks.  The starter I inherited prefers to be used and fed every two weeks to maximize its effectiveness.  When I returned to Minneapolis after three weeks' vacation eating unleavened bread I thrust myself into the busyness of everyday life without making time to heap mountains of flour upon itself, knead it into something sensible, or allow dough to rest and rise eight hours before baking.  Finally, a couple weeks ago, I pulled my starter from the back of the fridge and attempted to make some bread without high hopes.  Indeed, my Italian Herb Bread made with herbs fresh from my school's community garden fell flat.  A week later I tried again with the now-recently-fed starter.  Again, dense doughy bread resulted. I lugged the starter to work with me, made a batch of pizza crust with a couple students, contemplated the pain of parting with this legacy then decided as much as it saddens me to throw out an integral part of my heritage, an overflowing jar of bubbling goo sitting at the back of my refrigerator serves no purpose but to irritate my roommates.  On the way into the house that afternoon, I put the starter in the garbage can by the alley.

Who am I??

I recently received a surprise package in the mail - a free sample of Infant Formula.  Apparently Similac thinks I'm a new mother.

A couple days later, the Social Security Administration sent me a statement informing me of my retirement eligibility.  Apparently the government thinks I'm the age of my mother.

Steering my bicycle around the secluded corner by Minnehaha Creek after reviewing my potential pension, I laughed at this postal coincidence.  As my small chuckle subsided and I cruised down the hill toward the parkway, I began to wonder: if I'm not one or the other, and I'm not even somewhere in-between, who am I, really?  Obviously I cannot trust others to answer this question for me: they'll surely err on the mother / pensioner side of things.

I spent the next two hours pedaling, hitting that blissful meditative state in which I feel I could ride forever. In this tunnel-like experience, one identifier shone as clearly as the sole source of light at the end: I am a cyclist.

Maybe I'm not a cyclist in the truest sense of the word, but whoever I am and wherever I'm going, at least I know how I'll travel in the interim: by two wheels.

Lost

At one o'clock yesterday morning, I sat bolt upright in bed, feeling completely satiated of sleep after only three hours, bewildered about my location.  Indeed, it took several moments for me to gather my global whereabouts.  Even when I arrived at the conclusion, "I am in my bedroom in Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA," I did not feel reassured to find myself at home. I did not feel at home.

I tossed and turned; I got up and warmed a pita to eat with leftover Baba Ganoush. I read poetry that all seemed flippant and fleeting. I wondered at the question, "If you don't know who you are, how will you know where you're going?" and my instantaneous answer, while still in Palestine, "I am Minnesotan."  Since returning to Minnesota, however, I haven't felt at home, nor the strong desire to make this my home which has driven my life until this point.  I spend my unoccupied time daydreaming about future trips.  I spend my should-be occupied time doing the same.

Chile, Hawaii, British Colombia, Mexico City.  These all call my name.  The house in Minneapolis that I've wanted for so long seems to have fallen silent.

I feel like that little kid I saw lost at the airport the day I arrived home - here. Dumbfounded at the sudden absence of everything and everyone familiar, spinning in circles hoping to catch some hint as to my future direction, my next move and yet unable to move my feet or cry out for help.

Like that little boy, my eyes will soon be bloodshot red if I keep up these no-sleep sleep habits.  To a full night's sleep!

Estar Fragil no es la Misma de estar Debil

I am still learning. I am a slow learner. I am learning

that to be fragile does not mean to be weak.

A flower is fragile, but can survive

and offer hope and joy even in war.

It is a harbinger of peace.

I am learning to be true to myself.

To live authentically.

To live honestly, transparently.

In this I find great joy,

contentment,

deep and honest relationships.

Life awaits.

The only thing standing between the present and the future

is myself.

Make it. Do it. Go there.

Take risks - at the very least,
I'll have a story.

Story drives my life;

The pursuit of story

Dwelling in story

Creating story

Imagining story and living in story.

Slowly unfolding

the secret

layers

of story.

I am still learning.

I

slowly

unfold.

In response to May Swenson's poem "Bison Crossing Near Mt. Rushmore"

I want to live more like the wild bison and less like the cars twining the highway.
I want to go where nature leads me.
Right now it is telling me to stay. Stay here.  I tug at the reins but the city holds me firmly.  "This is where you belong," she whispers cunningly.


Together Minneapolis and I will battle through life.  Together this place and I have become intertwined.  Her rivers roil and beckon and call to me, "This is your destiny, your dream.  Let us stay and form and be formed by each other."


This land of the many glistening waters urges me to bury my feet and stiffen my trunk and to stand firm and tall and proud in her soil.  To be nourished by her soil and sheltered by the grandfather trees towering above me, shedding their wisdom down past my limbs each autumn.


I weep at the steadfastness of my feet and the transience of those who take shelter under my limbs.


I continue to grow.

Six years

The phone rang off the hook. I didn't recognize the number on caller id and I was nannying, so I didn't answer.  Again and again, it rang.  Finally a number I recognized appeared.


"Emily, it's Ruth.  Your friends have been calling here all day trying to get ahold of you.  They have something really important to tell you. I think you should call them back."


Dumbfounded, I sank into a chair.  What I originally insisted must be a cruel joke sank in as reality.  Annika carried her kiisu to me, set Snowflake in my lap and took my hand in hers, placing it atop Snowflake's white head as he began to purr.  "When I'm sad, kiisu helps me feel better," she explained.

Annika and I on another occasion; cuddled up for a sick day

Together, Annika, Oliver, and I garnered enough courage and composure to deal with the situation and arranged play-dates for each of the children.  I walked through the neighborhood making small talk with other parents, explaining my situation and thanking them profusely for their help.


When I got back to the house, my mom and Ruth were waiting for me out front with their bicycles.  Worried about me, they had come to my rescue as they have time and time again.  I thrust my leg over the frame of my own trusty steed, thanked my family for meeting me, then rode in the direction of home, pedaling as hard as I could. I wanted to ride infinitely, to lean into the wind and ride past the city limits, past suburbia, past any memory of the message that a dear friend had passed away.

Healing

I was learning to ride a bicycle.  We lived on a corner lot at the time, with a cobblestone driveway that arched around the back perimeter of the property.  Those of us who learned to ride our bicycles there would circle the house and yard, perfecting our new skill until the breeze against our skin caused such joy that we would open our mouths, smile and laugh aloud without regard.


I turned the corner from the driveway east onto the sidewalk that ran parallel to the street adjoining the north side of our house, feeling the thud-thud-thud of the sidewalk cracks under my soft wheels in time with my heartbeat.  Suddenly - and I can still picture this uneven crack between the cement squares - my wheels made a grinding sound instead of the rhythmic thudding, and I found myself on the ground, staring up at the clear blue Kansas sky through the still-naked branches of my favorite climbing tree.  Slowly I lifted my head to examine my scraped and bloodied knee and elbow.  I opened my mouth and began to wail, convinced I felt more pain in that moment than I ever would in my life.


My sister Ingrid, seven years my senior, jumped from the front porch where she was reading a book, and ran to kneel beside me.  Ascertaining that I was not critically injured, she offered what seemed to me esteemed medical attention: "Do you want some artificial perspiration?"


"Yes!" I cried.


"Do you know what that is?" her eyes twinkled and the corners of her mouth rose slightly.


"No!" I sobbed.


"Fake sweat."


Laughter broke through my sobs and soon I forgot the Worst Pain in the Universe.

Beautiful Collision

I went to church today and a woman spoke of a beautiful collision in which G-d shone as a light from each of our hearts.


I feel I was in such a collision last Wednesday night. Cycling along Washington Avenue in downtown Minneapolis, joyous at the clear night air grazing my cheekbones as I cruised into an intersection with a green light, I heard Evie shout from behind me and knew a car was coming.  Red, line, line, line. I hit by the gas tank and flew, bailed right - not into the intersection.  Lights - everything was white light. Pavement crashed against my helmet. My bicycle frame landed on top of me.  Lights, bright white lights, honking, save the bike, get out of the street.  Evie. People running toward me. Are you okay? Are you okay? Yeah, I'm okay!  I had the green, right? We had the green? Yes, you had the green. Yes, we had the right of way. Are you okay? My elbow's scraped. I'm okay.


A beautiful collision. I survived. I probably shouldn't have.  This feels miraculous.


A woman spoke at church today.  She said she saw a beautiful collision in which everything became light, bright white light, which was God, emanating from each of our hearts.

I am a dreamer

I've been reading love poems before bed & for awhile now they've made me feel a little sad & a little lonely as I close the anthology to fall asleep, but also grateful for the beauty.


Tonight I am no more in love than I have been other nights, and I am no less single.  Yet tonight I feel hopeful.
I did not have a date today.
I did not meet "someone" today.
I spent time with myself
                  by myself
and I began to remember
                        myself.


Who I am.
That I dream
& for what I dream.
I feel no more sure that my dreams
will come true,
nor of the path toward my
dream destination,
let alone the next step.
But I feel hopeful,
remembering
I am a dreamer.

Sailing

Caution: These thoughts are not all my own.


Am I Where I Want to Be?


-Where do I want to be?
-Am I where I want to be?
-How do I get there?


The way I'm going ... does it lead to life?
                                                 or death?

PURSUE LIFE.

Who do you have in your

life you can confide in?

                  rely on?

...................................................................................

I've always felt that life would carry me like a sailboat to where I am supposed to be.

(Caution: I don't actually know the first thing about sailing, I just dream about it a lot.)

This series hangs in my room above my bed. See - I do dream about sailing.

Today in the midst of our fancy Easter lunch, talking about cultural concepts of time and the importance of understanding that in the study of scripture, my dad revealed that while we (my family and our native culture) conceptualize "the future" as being in front of us, in Congo (where I was born) the future is considered to be at our backs.  As time flows like a river current past our standing-still selves (or maybe we're in a canoe?), the past lies as a vista before us and the future remains unseen and unknown.

I feel caught somewhere in the middle; I see my past, I consider it often. But I also feel as though I've seen what lies ahead.  Sometimes, just sometimes, I try to control and direct the present to become what I would like it to be, neglecting its own innate purpose.

This is where we, as a people, get into trouble.  When we manipulate the natural order of the universe to suit selfishness, we wreak havoc on the way things ought to be.  We erode our topsoil for farmland to grow commodity crops to create cheap calories.  We leach our soil with toxins, spilling them into our water, upon which all life depends.  The life and death of entire communities in the United States depends upon the influence of the corporations who make this destruction not only possible, but appealing, in pursuit of profit.

I am not arguing for inaction. Rather, consider the necessity of slow action.  The introductory questions hail from a sermon entitled, "U-Turns Are Allowed," in which Pastor Greg Ellis used the illustration of a driver missing their intended freeway exit and discovering that they are subsequently traveling in the wrong direction.  When I find myself behind a steering wheel, this is a common source of anxiety for me.  Behind my handlebars, however, I rarely worry about failing to follow explicit directions.  Traveling slowly allows plenty of time to consider all the options before choosing a specific direction.

Tomorrow I will pedal to work, and I will work at the pace of my young friends who are taking years to create the greatest masterpieces of their lives: themselves, humankind, our future.

Smart Phone

I got a smart phone.  This makes me feel "more connected" than ever before.  I don't know how I feel about that; I know it doesn't make me feel happy.  No more getting lost by bicycle or other means.  One step further from my once-hermetic life.  Will I rely less o other people now that I have this little machine?  Will I spend less time with my own thoughts?  I've gained this piece of technology.  Who will I lose?

Sundays

I feel infinitely left out on Sundays because I am still unsure of Deity.  I want to enter into the conversation, but I feel like a little kid again, with older siblings and adults carrying on a conversation without ever so much as looking my way, except maybe to "shush" me and ask me to wait until later - a later I'm sure will never come - a later they will forget about in the meantime.  But when they do remember, long after we've parted ways, they will pray that I will "just get it" in my own time.

Meanwhile, I will take the conversation about the Myth of Redemptive Violence and file it away with John Paul Lederach and the study about how children as young as six months can identify and show preference toward "helpful" characters and my own theses on the impact of violent hero characters in the media on our children's character development, perpetuating this Myth.

My narrative differs from the narrative of the church-folk conversation and, despite my fancy high-heeled church shoes, when I leave this place I hope to put my foot to the ground and travel slowly, carefully, through the woods, listening to the land.  I learned today that after Cain said to God, "Am I my brother's keeper?" God answered, "Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground."  I will listen.  The ground and the rocks will cry out.  I want to halt my ongoing conversations of everyday life for this.

This attentiveness to the land, to the purpose of land and the tragedies of the land, this is why I travel by bicycle.

Falling

Sometimes people talk about falling in love,
and sometimes it really is like that.
One day you're living a very pragmatic existence,
soon you're sitting up late on your best friend's bed trying to convince yourself you're not falling in love
(When you both know you are).
A couple months later when He moves away, you seek solace in the arms of a friend, heaving sobs from a place deep within yourself you didn't even know existed before Him.


This falling is much more subtle, much less dramatic.  All week long I've been picking my way along the desolate rocky shore, searching for glimpses of something not lost, something I know must be there.  Rarely do I spot it, shining from beneath a shallow pool , partially obscured by snail shells.  I treasure the fleeting beauty of these precious stones.


Yet as I stand above, looking down into these pools, their depth grows infinitely deeper.  i might choose to dive in but know my breath could not hold for such a journey.  I take a seat and stare across the sea toward the horizon.


On this eve of a new day I wonder: Will I take one step forward and set sail on the endless sea of sadness or will I continue my hunched pace along the beach, hoping for something more?

Birthday

On Monday I celebrated my birthday, my 25th birthday.  I wrote this that night near midnight.

It's my birthday, my 25th birthday.  I suddenly feel a little hesitant heading int othis year without much reflection.  Tired, even.  25. In some way, that's supposed to be significant, right?  I can rent cars without paying extra daily charges.  I'm supposed to have a quarter life crisis ~ for which I'm open to suggestions.

I briefly thought about quitting my job here and moving to Mexico City to live with my sister and brother-in-law and to take care of my nephew.

My friend Elise, at the request for suggestions, paused and thought about it then said pointedly, "You know, Emily, you already lead such an adventurous life - there's no need for one."

Adventurous.  This is not a word I would have used to describe myself.  I feel I pale in comparison to my friends and acquaintances.  I work nearly 50 hours a week, I'm beginning to dabble in church commitments, I spend my free time daydreaming about work and planning for work.  I like to visit my grandparents and sometimes I just wish for more quiet in my life.

I once sat, exasperated, across a coffee shop patio table from a now-ex-boyfriend and I banged my head down on the table.  "I just need to meditate!"

"So do." Then he drove me home, gave me a hug and a kiss and left me there, quiet, still and alone.

I ache at that memory, at that big empty space.  I remember standing in my un-air-conditioned house on that sweltering day, marvelous.  I stand at the edge of a field of crisp, amber wheat beneath a pure blue sky.  Oceans of yellow and solid, steady blue.  I am awash in it.  I long for such lazy, hazy days when my spirit rises up around me, my back pressed firmly into the the land on which I was born, the aromas of my wheat-filled childhood wafting up around me, releasing their pollens into that eternally steady sky; the sky of promises, the sky on which I rely.

If I knew how to dance to ask for rain, I would do so now.  I would ask the gods of the sky to look down upon me and see this lonely child looking up to them, basking in their glory, wondering, wondering, asking for wisdom as I open this next chapter of my life.

I hope for this year to step off of solid ground and set sail on a sky so blue it reflects the bright light of the sun.

Having Been Warned in a Dream

Feliz Dia de los Reyes from Mexico City!

These guys (the 3 Kings) are some of my favorite characters.  I'm not sure why.  Maybe it's their mystical following of a celestial figure to right where they're supposed to be.  I like to think maybe it's like this past summer when I just knew I was supposed to embark on a solo bicycle journey to Nashville, TN.  Sometimes you just know.

But I'm sure these guys had plenty o' people saying, ¨Hunh? Why?¨ and ¨What are you doing?¨

Then, when it was time for them to set out on their mundane journey home, they actually paid attention to what they considered a significant dream, which as it turned out, altered history.

Sometimes I have dreams that offer clear, concise directions.  These dreams I take to heart and consider each time I come to an intersection.  Some dreams aer bigger than others (THE dream, for instance, that I've been carrying at the center of my heart for as long as I can remember; the dream around which I've oriented my life thus far), while other dreams pertain to smaller theaters in my life - a recent dream about a toilet, for example.

I just hope that have the courage to pursue the true route encouraged by such dreams, even in the face of the death penalty.