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.