...I've lingered long in fields of toppled idols, searching for a grain of desire in the rubble, even at your whisper of "beyond."


Before You now, the summation of all I could want, is my honest grief for the years, hours, minutes I wasted in those fields, waiting for the idols to resurrect. Their broken pieces did not assemble. I cursed even the dust.

we<3it.com

Still, You will redeem what the locust has eaten, the desolation and foolishness. Grant me this white dress to wear, and I'll say yes again and again.  I'll cast aside my wandering rags for the banquet-wear of the Bridegroom...

Bailamos!

Was the next lyric that came to mind: Let the rhythm take you over? If so, be not ashamed. I too harbor some loyalty to the pop sensation, Ricky Martin: my early introduction to Latin music.


And where does Latin music intuitively lead next?  To dancing.


Allow me to preface by saying that in all my 23 years, I have never maintained a desire so fervently than to learn the art of salsa. Zumba, much like Ricky, was just a tease, until at last I recieved a proper invitation to a Cuban dance club. As J-Lo so brilliantly quips in Shall We Dance, the rules of engagement are as follows:


1. Don't think.
2. Don't speak.
3. Don't move, unless you feel it.


Allow me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bibtqDxXv1o&feature=BF&playnext=1&list=QL&index=1


As with any form of dance, without complete and total surrender to the art, it is neither enjoyable to watch or participate. In my head, I knew this, but in my limbs, there were nerves.  A staccato stride masked my anxieties as I departed the Woodley Park Metro in my red t-strap heels. Once again, I was lost and semi-agitated, due to the regularity in which I find myself in this scenario. Being a nomad occasionally has its petty frusterations.


I strained ahead for the inconspicuous Habana Village sign that hovered just enough above street level, allowing me to miss it the first time around. The detour led me to the entrance of one particularly dark alley and a choice unfolded before me. The clock read 15 minutes late. Forced to consider this questionably reputable bi-way to arrive at my destination, I didn't spend too much time deliberating.  For the sake of convenience, I took off into the shadows, cursing Mapquest as I went. As stupid as I am thankful, I did not die.


The clanging salsa tunes filled my ears, and I spotted my friends at the corner of the bar. A full scan of the room located the usual suspects, ethnic couples in effortless rhythmic passion and non-ethnic singles, admirably trying. I was such a one that fell into that aspiring category, though friends assure me that based upon my preference in music and culture, my being born white was some kind of cosmic mistake.


I began loosening my shoulders just enough to find the beat and frankly tried hard not to look too much like I wanted to engage any dance partners in the immediate area. I had stranger danger, revisiting in my mind those swift but effective maneuvers to momentarily incapacitate any male. Thanks to my tactically skilled brother-in-law, I mostly expect physical closeness with strangers to involve the some form of lethal force. With shock and awe, you must be wondering how in the world I am still single.


Should you dare to guess what happened next? Someone asked me to dance.


He was far enough along in his basic salsa step that I obliged, with the small crowd of my friends smirking in our direction. It was fun even, aside from the frequency with which he began stepping on my already work week weary feet, a kind of pain more irritating with each time he tried to lead when clearly, my foot was still there.


I feigned thirsty to rescue my unfortunate toes, when I spotted my friend being spun around by a man who was to salsa, as white is to rice. Luis is the exact representation of all things one can appreciate about a region of the world that produces miracles: men who like to dance.
I watched from a distance with appropriate awe, when at last the their lesson ended and I all but fell off my chair to be next in line. He first asked me if I spoke Spanish, as he clearly did, so I did not attempt any fabricatations. He moved with a kind of ease that was characteristic of a native and I asked how he learned. With an unmistakable accent, he explained that in the Dominican Republic, "dancing is what we do."


I liked that.


His feet were much kinder than my last partner's and quite frankly, I was planning to hold onto this arrangement for a greater portion of the night. He spun me as if I  knew it was coming the whole time and his movements commanded that I follow. "Smaller steps, more hips" were the corrections he made to my frame, a very direct statement made less suggestively than you would imagine. That is just what I love about salsa: that for a single moment, two people could not be more in agreement about their bodies, for the sake of the dance. 


 But soon, he too needed a rest, probably from trying to losen my catcus-like attempt at certain unfamiliar movements. He kissed the top of my hand to acknowledge the dance, and walked away.


But the merengue would change all of that. My friends had retreated to the third floor to sit a few songs out when I saw my chance to really learn what salsa was all about.


Otra Vez!


As I settled into the side-to-side tempo shift, I was again following the confident lead of Luis. This was more a dance of passion than had reached my comfort level, but again, it was surrender to the movement that allowed the style to come forth. 


I realized, in being pulled up two inches off the floor from extravagant sweeping dip, that I was beginning to learn something. I know my form needed much more work, but there is just something about "doing it right" that I could feel. Then after aligning in a face-to-face hold, he locked arms for a lift. I was unprepared for my feet to leave the floor, but they did anyway. What were we doing? I didn't have time to figure out what was coming, but knew only in that moment, complete and careless freedom.


At just the opportune moment, my friend cut in to say that they were headed home. I was breathless and had no notions of taking the walk back solo to the metro as I had come. As I quickly obliged, I told Luis, "I'll see you next Saturday!" half assured that it would be a lie. Though coming to think of it, I may be ready for round two. My introduction to salsa demanded that I leave all premeditation behind, to simply breathe the air of the moment. That may even be the best part....

Big ideas and Metro vertigo

Goal: I'm not checking my work e-mail from home. I decided that before I came to D.C. and thus far, am perfectly on track.

I'm just not "important" enough for that kind of behavior. I understand the striving here, in all its historical glorification; the ingenuity that pulsated through the veins of a young nation, and how, against many odds, its roots gripped the soil of freedom with grit, resolve and fearlessness.

 But was it not, deep down, the wearied soul in search of rest behind it all? A sanctuary where the demands of outsiders were stopped, and life continued as it were, with appropriate work, appropriate rest. That is my theory on why the Founders were so experimental and and dangerous in their time. Temperance and moderation.

I'm terribly tempted to go on with a word study on "equality" or something, but I really am not qualified and frankly, research is my day job.

So. The news on mute casts a bleary glow over the room, my feet are warm for the first time I can remember, and I'm looking out over rooftops with just the right amount of snow. I own the exact items I longed to shelve my refrigerator with, from the mecca that is Trader Joe's. I have once described it as "God's gift to single people" and now, more accurately as manna.

But it wasn't that easy for me, fetching this manna. All the Israelites had to do was whine a little, ok a lot, and God rained down the mother lode. Who knows if He was trying to feed them, or maybe accidentally knock a few in the head with the convenient mode of delivery, but either way--simple sustenance for the Israelites. 

You have no idea where I'm going with this. But I do. I'm going to the corner of 25th and L, up to my ankle height Banana Republic booties in slush, rosy cheeked from snow-flaked gusts, and joyful. With an intern friend by my side, we discussed the importance of commitment to action even when the outlook seems bleak. You could have stuck us on a Perseverance poster. One of the advantages of being those"young people" often mentioned with an undertone of rebuke, is that we usually follow through with our silly ideas.

The idea of Trader Joe's burned so desiringly in my mind that I hardly noticed my heel not gripping the cement so well, until the perpetual shrieks of my colleague forced me to consider the possibility of falling, very gracelessly, wet, on my butt, in the snow. Still, full throttle ahead we commenced, arms interlocked, until the Promise Land appeared, the Trader Joe's sign, deliciously red.

Bursting forth from the doors with an armful of goodies and an afterglow from conversation with an exceptionally gracious check-out clerk, we had done it. In my bag, 2-buck-Chuck (which in actuality was 2.99 buck-chuck) and not a penny more, to spare its namesake, dark Hot Chocolate Peppermint Mix for the shivery evenings ahead and fresh asparagus for good measure (remember moderation?) 

The atmosphere of the street had yet to crush this hope welling up within me, though in the atmosphere of blasting car horns I threatened a scolding to those "impatient" people in their impatient cars with every where to go in their 2 hours early leave from work, cursing the inclement weather. And there we hobbled in front of them in the barely visible crosswalk, myself high-heeled and in a skirt suit, pencil-skirt, mind you, which restricts forward motion to movements of a stick figure on stilts. The issues of "heated seat" man/woman honking at other "heated seat" man/woman in the next car really didn't ramp up compassion within me at the moment.

Then I looked up, and saw what never appears less than miraculous all my years of snow watching, a sky releasing gentleness, unending and impossible to discern from which point its beauty originates. Gentleness reigning on chaos, provision for want, grace for relentless people, including myself.  I should have said, "Thank you." But I think it came out more like "It's beautiful." I think He understood what I meant.

On the Metro home, I kept wondering how a country farm could sprout a city weed like myself; how the whoosh of a train coming so close and quickly before me meant endless adventures ahead. I'm romanticizing, its true, but the moment deserves reflection, when settling in to a certain place just seems more than fine and better than ok. 

I'm casting my lot in with the Fed's calling my day off tomorrow, and not feeling too premature about it, as it is 12 am. Then you shall find me at Busboys, in the steam cloud of my Chai and self-correcting any movements of rocking back-and-forth in place, as I did at the dinner table, and braced myself for the "earthquake." But alas, Metro vertigo.

Just Us

God's concern for the oppressed did not materialize at the moment the scales fell off my eyes in order to see it. Yet in many respects, I continue to fight this egocentric impulse.



http://thejusticeconference.com/


I'm a human being, riled by emotion and circumstance, quick to comprehend and slow to change. But it is with new understanding that I approach a gift I have handled somewhat haphazardly, and quite selfishly before.
The gift of my neighbor.


Is it strange though, that I hardly think of my neighbor as a gift?
Jesus centered the gravity of all the Old Testament law, those tireless remembrances for Israel, upon two commandments: love the Lord Your God with all your heart, mind, soul and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself.


The sincerity with which I ought to love my neighbor is to be elevated above all knowledge, accomplishment and personal gain. Love always wins. The apostle Paul depicted loveless action as the arbitrary clanging of pots and pans, a senseless act to a King who came to serve.


To my neighbor, God requires an expression of bleeding and sincere human love, however flawed I am in the attempt.


 In the Weight of Glory, C.S. Lewis renders the individual a creature of fantastic eternal significance. People are investments of immortality.

The load, or weight, or burden of my

neighbour’s glory should be laid daily on

my back, a load so heavy that only

humility can carry it, and the backs of the

proud will be broken.

There are no ordinary people. You have

never talked to a mere mortal. Nations,

cultures, arts, civilization—these are

mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of

a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke

with, work with, marry, snub, and

exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting

splendours.

Next to the Blessed Sacrament

itself, your neighbour is the holiest object

presented to your senses. If he is your

Christian neighbour he is holy in almost

the same way, for in him also Christ vere

latitat—the glorifier and the glorified

 Glory Himself, is truly hidden

What a horrific tragedy, then, injustice appears. A blasphemous act by those who forsake the glory of God, hidden in the very fabric of each person. As we all know, injustice is not a self-correcting problem. It is a problem that when ignored, manifests in carnage and terror.


The most shocking part about the Rwandan genocide of 1994 was not the capacity of the average person to perpetrate wholesale slaughter. It was an international community excusing itself from it's neighbors. Excusing itself from acting on behalf of every innocent man, woman and child subjected to a sword wielded in fearful hysteria.


It's strange though, how the problem of neglect begins in my own heart. The echoes of Cain abide in my soul and I too ask, "Am I my brother's keeper?"  How I can carry the weight of my brother's glory while finding difficulty in stooping to care from my lofty comforts, from my rights in a developed world that serve my every conceivable whim of entitlement . I must ask and receive compassion from its truest source, the God of justice and mercy. I must politely, defer entitlement for more pressing concerns: a world writhing with the pleadings of the mercilessly oppressed.


Please understand that what I share is more than empty pathos. It is the movement from just me, to just us.


My calling stands in the moment of recognition, that I have seen my neighbor. When I do not see my neighbor, I will not love him. I submit that my knowledge acquired, my possessions upon the altar of sacrifice, all profit me nothing without love for my neighbor.


The words of Isaiah 58, inspired by a God who has served his people perfectly in the life of Jesus, baptized my conscience with this searing reality:

Is this not the fast that I have chosen:

To loose the bonds of wickedness,

To undo the heavy burdens,

To let the oppressed go free,

And that you break every yoke?

7 Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,

And that you bring to your house the poor who are cast out;

When you see the naked, that you cover him,

And not hide yourself from your own flesh?

I am commissioned to action in the fight against injustice, but without love, all slips forgotten into the void. Let my life and love be as the sweet perfume Mary spilled before the feet  Jesus, rising to exalt Him who spared not the highest personal cost.

Monday Mishap

Poor Mom.
She chop chopped.
Her finger top off on the onion block.


It fell in the sink.
But she did think
To Ziploc it tight for Emergency


With a bag of cold peas
Went the amputee
Who carried the flesh, assured it would be


Unfit for the Pot Roast, stewing at three

Doughnut Confidential

This is a very serious subject.


Retract earlier statement: this is not a serious subject. It is funny and slightly sad and borders on embarrassing. I spelled embarrassing wrong the first time around. That was embarrassing. 


This is the little known story of the doughnut and what it means to me. Take with care the cryptic secrets I am about to unlock. These are the ex-files, no, not that 90s FBI show about unsolved paranormal phenomena. It is the story of  the first "ex" and doughnuts. Yes, that kind of "ex."


If you just gasped, fearing a flood of expletives on its way, or Lord-knows what people say in public about their private relationships, I will do nothing of the kind. You are a few and cherished readership, I refuse to drive off. After all, this story is not about me, its about doughnuts. And other things I deem interesting to say.




Photo courtesy of herobyday.
(Black line courtesy of myself :)

The deep-fried sugar-glazed comfort I have always known and loved, preferably with a slight maple coating and shaped in the rectangular Roth's Family Market way, was once threatened to destruction forever. Culprit? Emotional ties to eating; memories associated with taste and smell that can revive delighted-in childhood memories, or alternatively, fear and loathing.

I have this miraculous capacity to overcome the latter kind of memory; the time when I threw up chocolate, and the bravery, or ignorance, exhibited when I dared to eat semi-sweet morsels again. It is a strength I hope to pass on to future generations.

I am off-putting the inevitable doughnut story. It's because I really don't want to tell it. But with the virtual mask of the blogosphere to my advantage, even the reticent speak with bold and reckless abandon. 

Something at the 24-hour Winchells Doughnut shop on Rosecrans went horribly, terribly wrong. It was not their heinous mispelling of doughnut as "donut", though regrettable. It was really the fact I was sitting at the Winchells at all. I hate that Winchells, and not just any, you see, but that one in particular, off some junky San Diego side street. I'd have the notion to set it ablaze. Don't take that comment too seriously, more in the literary sense of  the word fire.
Formerly, I was apt to offer up my heart over a sugary doughnut treat. But this was not the occasion to share a sugary treat, or in any case, my heart. No, not then. I was there to  wave the white flag of failure.


My first boyfriend who shall remain nameless, because names are not important and remember, (this story is about doughnuts) thought it appropriate to discuss our fated ending in this doughnut shop. 

There were no fond attachments to this doughnut house, no memories or visits there together--it wasn't even the halfway point between our two places of residence. But there I stood, before the high heaven of heart attacks on Rosecrans Avenue, glaring with a feeling I deigned to accept: heartache.

I should not have agreed to go. But I had this intractable hope for normalcy between us. I like to call it Fanciful Notion #1, this hope that drove my car into the space next to his. There would be many notions of like-kind to follow.

At Winchell's, Home of the Warm 'N Fresh, on a September-something evening, I was feeling quite the opposite. Cold and stale was a closer reading of my hard-convinced heart that things were not right in the universe of our couple-hood.

Mortified, tears of acceptance ran down my cheek as the man behind the counter witnessed our relationship dissolve into nothingness. I nurtured a little bit of hate for him, I will confess, being the vendor of the tasty treat my former boyfriend enjoyed before me with the ease of a midnight snack. I could have fried him in his own grease, that pretentious doughnut seller.

But to be fair, it wasn't the doughnut seller's fault. It was the handling of my honest emotions poured forth; as a grease traced napkin, once possessed of something sweet, now tossed aside with irrelevance. It was the fact that I could not think, let alone eat in the wake of this loathsome feeling, as I watched my once boyfriend lick his fingers of powdered sugar, washing his hands of what had been.

It would take the passing of many holiday dinners to remind me how to eat for pleasure again that year. That was embarrassing to say, I want you to know. But that cavalier, finger-lickin' damnation of our time together was a revelation for me. With a stomach churned of grief, I learned to overcome.

Silly as it seems, years later the enjoyment of an apple-cider doughnut on the stop before home by Bauman Farm's has never tasted so empowering. Now considering that day, I am determined not to be rid of my love for deep fried fat. Men come and go and I've decided that the doughnuts for one, shall keep coming.



You can laugh if one day I'm fat, permission granted. I'll laugh too because that's what fat ladies do, or is it sing? At least I'll be happy. Happy for a memory, though sad, not to destroy the sweet little things I love about life. I have extracted the final ounce of meaning left in this doughnut story and have only to leave you with this Warm 'n Fresh wisdom. Eat your heart out Winchell's, it's nothing personal.



I can't take it in...

There are moments in life, I just can't take in. Moments given at an appointed time, more fulfilling than that one moment's capacity. So much, that I must fasten to them again, later in thought. Returning and remembering anew. When time slows its march, suspended and spinning like a glass ornament, I am defined. By times often happy and doubtlessly, good.

Thoughts. Pictures.Words. Images. My soul awakens to each, containing a trace of great glory that one day I will abide in fully.

The tiny still-sleeping breaths of my baby niece, I could bottle. Lifted to my ear, they are as the sound of the ocean  in a conch shell.


Watching dawn and dusk close upon an infinitely spreading African plain. A prayer lifted for each cup of suffering spilled over Ugandan earth, bitter with the blood of past wars.


The pure belief of Lucy Pevensie, slipped into a dream-swept corner of Narnia. The lightpost lambent with mystery and adventure in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.




My tears returned as salt into the Pacific ocean, where the Creator of its vastness spoke comfort to me from the ancient words of Psalm 81:


I am the LORD your God,
Who brought you out of the land of Egypt;
Open your mouth wide, and I will fill it.


The aroma of coriander in endless hours of watching hope rise and fall with the capacity of an organism as minute as yeast. A lesson of patience, yielding an                    edible reward.


Breath leaves my body slow in one long release--life just couldn't be, any more...