The Urchin

The travelling man came across an urchin in the street. She was dirty and her fingernails were clenched and bloodied against her breast. One hand was pressed to the pavement and the other was pressed against her breast. Hollow-eyed, she glanced up at the man and waved with one hand still against her. Her shawl falls away from her dirty eyes and she stares. He waves back and travels on. He is a travelling man, it's what he does. She's just a little urchin girl, and as he whisps on, an empty chewing-gum wrapper falls from his pocket. She picks it up and calls in a softly lisping voice, "Thank you, sir. I'll hold this piece of kindness in my pocket and one day when I have something to give, I'll be kind to you too." He doesn't turn around, but hopes that she'll grow up to be not such a dirty girl as she is now.

Decades later, when the moon is king and the sun is dark, the travelling man returns and as he walks, he sees the urchin girl - thinner, colder, and brittle as a snowflake. She is not an urchin anymore, but a seller of secrets, a lie-seller. 

"Are you a buyer of things I know?" she said softly in the street, her hand clenched against herself. 

The white-lipped man with the pocketwatch stops. "Are you a seller of good things?"

"I sell the things I know, sir. But we will barter in things we know: I will hold whatever secret you put into me and then I will tell you something happy. You may buy the things I know."

So he whispered a bitter secret into her ear, and she took her hand off of her breast, and pulled, to the travelling man's surprise, her hand away holding her heart, beating and hollow as a drinking gourd. She put the pale secret into the hollow vase of her heart, solemnly. Then she pressed it back into her chest. She shuddered and grew a little paler. "Thank you. I'll hold it unless you want it back." She said it sort of like a question.

"No. I do not miss it." 

"Then let me tell you a secret, in exchange for what you sold me." She looked up into the heavens, and whispered something in his ear. His face lifted and he smiled. His lips took some color and he put his pocketwatch away. Then he walked away.

She smiled thinly and sat back down. Whatever he said had made her sad, and whatever she had said had made him happy.  

The travelling man was curious. And so he walked to her. "Are you a buyer of things I know?" she said. 

His eyes shot from her dark hollow eyes to her hand clenched against her. "What do you sell? Lies or the truth?"

Her eyes flickered. "I don't know the difference. I sell the things in my heart. I have many things that my heart knows. And I sell the ones that make you happy. I'd make you happy, sir, if you'd exchange me something in your heart."

"Why?"

"My heart falls out a lot, and it has a hollow in it. It's shaped like a secret. So I thought I should do it that way. That part I know is true."

He stretched out his hand and dropped a beam of light, purer than any secret into her hands.

"I can't keep this, sir." she said, her lips quivering. "I've never had anything this beautiful. I'm not that kind of girl, sir."

"Keep it." he said softly. Curious, he said," Now, tell me one of the things you sell people."

After a moment's hesitation, she rose to her tiptoes and whispered in his ear. His eyes intuitively brightened. "But that is true." he said happily. "The things you say are true."

She looked relieved, and tired. "I'm learning now what true is, sir. But that's not what I say, sir. I'm saying things that are happy."

He looked her in the eye. "Now tell me one of the things still in your heart. One of the sad ones."

She shook her head. "No, they are mine to hold. I'm the one with the hole in my heart, and I'm the only one who has to do this. I wouldn't wish this on you."

"But they're lies." he said. 

She turned her head in a somewhat shamed way and walked.

The travelling man saw her again the next day, sitting on the ground. The first thing he noticed was that her hand was out in front of her face, outstretched, and not clenched against her.

In her hand, her heart was bleeding all over, and the smile he was accustomed to seeing on the lie-seller's face was gone. "It wouldn't go back in today." She said blankly. "I couldn't get it back once I put a secret in it." She winced.

"Does it hurt?"

She winced. "I can't tell if this is truth or a lie. And I know I'll die if I get it wrong." She glanced back to her heart in her hands.

"I will show you the truth." Said the travelling man. And he put his hand on her heart and held it for her as she coughed. Secrets and lies and sadness and blood poured out of it and she coughed and cried. "No, no!" she said. "I promised I would hold those."

But they continued to pour until one last thing was stuck in there as she gasped.

It was a chewing gum wrapper.

"I made a promise once," she said to the travelling man, all out of breath. "to be kind to you."

Then she crushed her heart into her hands and said, "I can not hurt you any more. Neither can I lie to anyone again." 

And the urchin exhaled.

Dear Bathsheba [[remorse and resurrection]]

...Oh, beloved Bathsheba. Do not leave me here, alone with the moon. I love you, my dear, oh, I love you...

God, how I miss you. 

I'm very alone here, Abba. When I saw her bathing on the roof, I loved her. She loved me, too, God, I know she did. We were beautiful together, admit it. She was sad and she was lonely, and I was scared and I was misunderstood. I was so afraid to lose her.  You've taken me away so many times from the ones I love. I was afraid you would do it again, God, that once again, you'd cast me away from the ones I love. I loved them, God. I promise I did. 

I think that was why I snatched her up the way I did, I just didn't want to lose her, the way I lost all the others I loved most. I know, I know, it was wrong of me to be so afraid.

I wasn't trying to hurt her, the pretty, weeping girl that night. I wasn't trying to hurt you either, I swear it. Oh, how I didn't want to give her up. I miss her, my beloved Bathsheba. It wasn't her fault, of course, the dark way I loved her, the way my love turned to murder.

Oh, God, I can't even think about that. My heart will break all over again and I think I had just salvaged enough of it to say I'm sorry. I am. I'm so so sorry.

How you must despise me. My family does. My whole kingdom does. I despise myself, most of all my bitter-stained heart. 

I'm alone with the moon again. I'm a mass of contradictions, you know - the king after God's heart and the one who killed for a bitter love.

Give me my harp, my dear, I need to sing a short song. Or maybe it will be a long one.

You're my beloved now, the real one, you who never left me alone with the outside darkness (saying I'm sorry and then trying to forget over and over). You've kept my hands gathered, and for the last time, taken hyssop and ground it into my heart, into my eyes, into my hands.

I'm aflame now, and I'm weeping and there is resurrection. My heart died when we parted, you and I, and I buried it when I said goodbye to her, but now, create in me a clean heart, a new one, O God, and resurrect - renew - a right spirit within me. Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love.

Because, I'm sorry isn't going to work when you're alone with the moon. Because, a broken and a contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.

Thanks be to God. Thanks be to God, through Jesus Christ our Lord.

The Siren

My child, now let us look at a marvel...
What a peculiar little chimaera
See her long hair as wild and dark as moss
Beloved eyes one green and one purple
She is so very small, but with
A large voice singing songs
Oh, my child, cover your ears and
stuff beeswax into them
For the little white lady
with harp-voice wings
With a green serpent wound down her waist
She's quite something
Look at her, wet smiling and air weeping
A warning, that's what we call her
Because we can not be both
Air and water
Much less an earth and a spirit
There can be no candle in the underworld
No worms in love with doves
Salt in a fresh spring
Do not marvel at me, my child
But as I change
You may love me
[that's a question]

I fall in love with a bird and live

Once upon a time, there was a little worm-girl. She lived in the quietest part of a garden, under hte shade of a wild-haired tulip.

There was not one thing special about this worm. She was not important, she was not talented, she was not (certainly not!) pretty. The easiest way to describe her is a Nobody among Nobodies.

The grown-up worms knew her to be a simple-hearted little thing with no big aspirations and no big exceptional traits, but a big heart - big for a worm, that is. The boy worms were blinded by her blindness and usually mistook her for a ladybug. Ladybugs are good at listening, but are usually too prim and proper to be friends.

Maybe they were right. She was a very blind worm, and not very important at all. Either way, she listened a lot, and she loved to listen. But she still couldn't see and maybe that was her biggest fault.

One day, she was squalling about in the shade of the garden. It was so bright and hot and her skin hurt. She, in her ungainly worm fashion, squinted her forehead where her eyes would  have been and squirmed uncomfortably away. She thought about the sun and the other worms and the tulips and suddenly wished she weren't blind even though she'd know how ugly she was.

"Hello, girl."

She froze. She knew that voice. It was a bird, one of the bright winged creatures who are as full of light as they are of air and beauty. They also eat worms. "Hello, bird." She said. She flails side to side, trying to face him as best as one can with no face.

"Don't trouble yourself," he said softly. He hopped around to face her. "Are you alright, girl?"

She can't remember the last time she was alright.And she knew birds. They tried to be kind, but they're so beautiful, so undeniably better, that they end up devouring poor worms like her. "What do you want from me?" She said.

He waits a long time to answer. When he does, his voice is soft as warm poppy petals. "Just... just to love you." he says quietly. "To be friends. You've always been kind."

Not to wild birds. "Thanks, but not really. I'm not kind." she says, worming her tail awkwardly backward.

"Yes, you are. You've always listened and cared and asked and been kind to me. I-" he hesitates. "Don't you remember how kind you are to me?"

"I do not know you." What a sorry thing to say. "I'm sorry, but I don't."

"That's okay." he says, and he's not quite disappointed. "I think we are friends."

"Okay."

"I think," he hesitates again. "I think I, maybe, love you." It sounds like a question.

She didn't answer, because birds can't really love worms, not really. They may care, they may be merciful or even kind, possibly sweet, but never ever can they really love worms. Where would they live?

She wishes she could have seen how he looked when he said it though.

He did keep coming back, the bird boy, every day. They did nothing together. She couldn't really fly with him, and there was nothing that she would like him to see about her home. So they lazed. They listened. They sat. They talked. They were together.

"Tell me about seeing," She said. They're sitting in the sunshine. Her tail is would around his talons.

"It's amazing." His breath and his wings are against her back. She sighs, because it's good to be together and alive together. "The world is very bright." he continues.

"Okay."

"I see things as they seem, I think. It's not like what you do, dear."

"Okay."

He stirs a little. "I love you."

Before she can talk herself out of the glimpse of light she just had, she says, "I love you too."

Oh no! She is blind. She is a blind ugly worm. She can not love him. He can not love her, but even less can she love him. "No! No, I can not love you." She gulps down a pocket of tears. "I am a worm and you are a bird."

"You don't understand. Love isn't like that."

"A bird can not love a worm, my dear. Where would they live?" She says, and the world is very very dark again.

A blink of light. "We are each other. Not a bird, nor a worm. We are who we are."

A blink of tears. "No, you can't do that. Don't become a worm for me."

His wings move. "I've always been a worm. It was you who first called me a bird."

All of a sudden, she remembers who he is and why he knew they were friends. But she knew him, once a long time ago, not as the bird that he is, but as one of the other wailing worms. She had listened to him.

"But I feel your wings." She says, stubbornly. "You are more than you think you are. How could you be a worm?"

He smiles. "Sometimes love goes by many names. Sometimes, its best name is blindness."

Love is neither sight nor blindness.

"No." She says. "Love's name is not blindness. Love is what is real, it is a realization. You are a bird. My blindness gave love realization."

"Do you not feel your wings?" he says softly. "My sight will realize your reality, too."

She is not a worm. He is not a bird. They are real and the in between of wings and worms is where they live.

Summer and Blue

“Hello.” said the boy with the blue eyes. It was raining and his brown hair ran down his face with the rainwater.

“Hi.” said the girl with the summer smile. Her hair was not running anywhere. She held a polka dot umbrella over her head and stood in its spotlight.

The boy with the blue eyes smiled, but it was a sad, February smile. “We don’t know each other, do we?” The smile turned to frost, and the summer girl watched, perplexed and teary-eyed as he turned into an ice ghost before her.

The summer girl had seen a ghost before. That’s how she knew the boy with the blue eyes was one.

She lived in an industrial-strength box in the middle of a petulant city. The sky was a perplexing shade of brown and the people there were all little silent-movie black-and-white executives. They wore combed hair, conservative ties and carried briefcases with locks on them. The reason they had locks on the their briefcases was that they carried weeks of July and August, packaged in dandelion fluff and wishes, in them.

Summer is very heavy.

Every evening at the very same time, in the very same way, the executives would sit down at their mouldering kitchen tables with a glass of strong autumn in one hand and their briefcase in the other and they would open them and smell their summer weeks and look at the yellow sun in a briefcase where it doesn’t need to shine except to keep awake.

The girl with the summer smile had always been told she was born at that time of day and when she had made her first sound – a self-conscious hiccup – she had accidentally swallowed a sunbeam and that it was always trying to run away when she smiled.

In reality, the reason she smiled like summer is that when she had first got her briefcase full of July and August, she had looked at the sun so often she had begun to turn into summer itself. When the others found out, they put her in a very industrial little box house and told her about the ritual of seeing summer only once a night.

So she listened and met the ghost boy in the wallpaper.

He was translucent with tiny teeth and a mass of hair. “Hello.” he said as he rose from the oily industrial wallpaper.

She was still too young to run away from either ghosts or strange boys.

She was not afraid of him.

So they became friends until he left her to go to the capacious attic where he turned into a pile of bones with a heartbeat.

She cried.

When she could come to her senses and abandon the drudgery of walking under a brown sky with a briefcase, she climbed the cobwebs to the attic, and, stifling the Niagara Falls inside her lungs, she found the bones and embraced them for she embraced the ghost boy’s memory. She tripped on a wooden puppet on the way down.

She grew to despise both attics and puppets.

Standing here in the rain looking at the blue-eyed boy made of ice, she was reminded unpleasantly of the ghost boy’s heap of bones in the attic.

She lowered her eyebrows. “I defy you, Death.” she said to the February clouds. “I know you mean harm only and I see where caring got me last time.”

She turned from the boy with blue eyes and the sound of her shoes was like rain. And rain was raining. And the boy was making noises silently, and his eyes were blue, and his cheeks were running blue and his chin was raining blue and he was crying and there was rain. He was unmoved still – she knew because she heard no footsteps behind her – but he was blue with ice and blue with rain and blue with crying.

She looked down at the crackling sidewalk and observed her feet, made of smoke and coffee stains. She observed her transparent hands and her tears fell through her – his tears too. All of a sudden, things were plain and sunflowers grew – she was a ghost. Even less than a mouldering heap of bones piled up without a soul in an attic, she was a ghost.

Both. No wonder she had not run from the wallpaper boy. Ghosts. How could she remember the wallpaper boy, if she and the blue-eyed boy are so of smoke and ice. There is no marriage of fire and water. There is no love in ghosts.

And the blue-eyed boy’s tears met hers and they turned to blood and the blood ran off them. She turned around as he turns toward her and their blood vapor hands meet.

Blood turns to water and they fall into stars. They are alive and summer meets blue and we call it Love.

Walk My Love

Siuil, siuil, siuil a run

Siuil go sochair agus siuil go ciuin

Siuil go doras agus ealaigh lion

Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

Walk, my love

Run, my love

I have found your heart, my love

Hold now -

Among the reeds the tusks of pigs

I'm picking up pearls thrown

[At me I'm the dirty girl

Cleaning laundry hang me up to dry]

Selling my bejeweld soul

Selling my windswept mind

Selling myself to dirty tricks

dirty work dirty men and egrets

Walk, my love

Run, my love

I have found your heart, my love

Hold now -

In the muck where algae

Is crawling up my arms

My skirt eaten by frogs swallowed

I Am Bare

My skin crawls and would you stop looking at me

[They're all dirty boys and girls

That's why they laugh at my nakedness

I'm burning put out the fire boys]

They cry laugh turn their backs

My hands grasp a sword of bronze

Walk, my love

Run, my love

I have found your heart, my love

Hold now -

Cutting away my skin

I bleed

My skin falls off

I cut further

My muscle falls away

I cut further

My bones clatter down

I cut further

Just my heart now, my love

It still beats. I am still alive.

The battle is against me

And against the frogs

[I'm a dirty heart

But I am a little fighter

I promised my children I'd never]

Walk, my love

Run, my love

I have found your heart, my love

Hold now -

Can't you see I've done this killing

For love?

Dead frogs and boneless hearts

For love

Oh failure

Sweet transparency

What was I supposed to do?

Love all over our bodies

I think I've always loved you.

Wherever I'm with you.

Walk, my love

Run, my love

I have found your heart, my love

Hold now.

White Bird

White Bird

Once upon a time, there was a little bird. All of white, she dressed herself in the morning and the songs of half-forgotten cemeteries, all crying out. She was a very young little bird, her downy feathers not quite finding flight. That didn’t stop her from believing that the sky could not contain her joy.

“I only know that when you play with Thelma, you always get the worst of it. That is why I say, be careful.” said Mother.

The little white bird flew along the lines of the trees. She crossed them like barbed wire and landed among the wild yellow lilies. Each one grasped at her with their feline paws and, among them, she knew she had a home. But the joy of the sky was still uncontainable, and something inside of her cried out that there had to be more than this. The lilies wiped their mouths with their sleeves and turned to devour another bite of her tail.

And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.
And from all across the world, Max smelled good things to eat, and so he gave up being king of where the wild things are. But the wild things cried, “Oh, please don’t go! We’ll eat you up! We love you so!”
But Max said, “No.” And he climbed aboard his private boat…

White birds
are
harder to
chew
than
wolves are

You are not a hen. You are not a kitten. You are not a cow. You are not a car, or a plane, or a Snort. You are a bird, and you are my mother.

The white bird couldn’t escape the gnawing grip of the tiger lilies. Her wings, now clipped by their maws, were tainted red by their bloodstained teeth. Her tail was caught among the green leaves. No one could see her any longer. But reality set in and the traps were broken. The sunrise gobbled up the night and she didn’t want to leave the warm embrace of the bloodied flowers…

Once upon a time, there was a princess –
“Was the princess you?
- and she fell in love –
“Was it hard to do?”
- it was very easy!
“Was he strong and handsome?
“Was he big and tall?”
There’s no one like him, anywhere at all…

iloveyou
crytheweeds
iloveyou
crythebluebonnets
iloveyou
criesthesun
iloveyou
crythetigerlilies

“I know who you are,” the man said, “for I made you. I built the tower and set it in motion. I planted the meadow, put fish in the ocean. I’ve seen you fall down in the mud and the goo. I’ve seen all you’ve done and all you will do. Here’s what you look like. Here’s how I see you. Put this in your pack and you’ll find it will free you from all of the pictures and all of the lies that others make up just to cut down your size.”

Suffocated by the words of the flowers and the desire of the skies, the white bird died…

And Max sailed back through a day, and in and out of weeks, and almost over a year to his very own room, where he found his supper waiting for him

And it was still hot.

Wings fly on.
Beating in her chest.
Maybe it’s her muscles straining to fly.
Maybe her heartbeat.
Only wild things love me,
She sings.
Until the sun
Eats her up
In his enthusiasm to see her
And the joy of the sky
Embraces a
White hand.

{Featuring selections from
A Bargain for Frances, by Russel Hoban
Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak
Are You My Mother?, by P.D. Eastman
The Disney classic, Snow White
A Snoodle’s Tale, by Phil Vischer
Original piece, “White Bird” by Catey Yuen}

Two Poems on One Day (Two/ little bits and pieces)

Two

Two planes passed each other in the night

Two silent blinking heartbeats

Two longing believingly hopeful lights

A pilot stops to find a star to eat

Two planes and no delight

Two fireflies passed each other, full of fright

They blink, they cover their mouths

The moon's fear is far too bright

They fall to the ground, careful not to arouse

Two fireflies would never find a might

Two yellow-spiced winds passed each other on the right

Briefly they intoxicate their own poisons

They vomit up their hearing and sight

They turn their blind eyes from wish and reason

Two yellow-spiced winds are always a fight

Two white birds passed each other in flight

Both too tired to want or demand

Their heartbeats and wings fill with breathful white

For just a moment, they hold hands

And two white birds are all quite

little bits and pieces

little bits and pieces

All of life was a map with a key

and it was torn up into

little bits and pieces

I objectify and fragment

I lust and I lose

My vision is a stained glass crackled mirror

Dropped by demons into my eyes

Who are you?

I see only long slender fingers

I hear only the squalling of your singing

I'm distressed by my love

of little bits and pieces

Whole
Half

None

I'll be the white capped head of hair

I'll blend into the green eyeliner

No one will find me

And no one will care

And we'll call the silence freedom

And we'll be free

little bits and pieces

of glass and seashells only cut my hands

but if I were invisible, I wouldn't have to worry

about the little bits and pieces

who like to follow me

I'm a mother duck, you see

And the whole of the earth is my duckling

I spit my bill on the ground

Because I'm disgusted

I peck my bony feet till they're

little bits and pieces

My eyelashes all fell out

And I lost my fingers

In the white lake

Beauty is lust

And vision is fr agmented

All is

little bits and pieces

And even longer

When I left my glass slipper there on the step, I did not expect you to pick it up. I was running at a hundred thousand miles an hour, knowing I did not belong there. I don't know what I expected would happen to my shoe. I supposed I would have left it there in that land of polished lights and glowing wineglasses. It fit in there.

I did not expect you.

I did not expect the bloodstains on the heels from where your hands were bleeding from saving me from that roaring dragon at the ball. I did not expect your crown to be made of brambles. Princes are princes, true is true, but what prince has no gold upon him but his golden eyes?

You saw me.

They (not you) have all forgotten the captive monster who posed as the princess. The tinkling goblets never stop their music-box-melody from within, but I feel the horns sprouting from my forehead and the hunching of my back - I am no princess! - Oh, why did I ever pretend? Now I know too much...

The rain falls on my face and the laughter turns to thunder. I trip on my one-shoe and feel my dress soak full of mud. Your crown is beside me, and my glass slipper.

Have you really loved me all this time?

He says, And even longer.

{True love at first sight}

Good-Natured Monsters

While listening to some soundtracks a few afternoons ago...

Sam: JI-JI! It's Pretty and the Beast!

That made me smile. I love "Pretty" and the Beast. I spent some time reading the original translation the other day (for a speech. Shh!) and it's simply fantastic. I always thought it was about how Beast learns to overcome his selfishness... I've been looking at Beauty's perspective a little more now.

Have you ever loved a monster? I have. All I wanted was to return to my family, my trunkfuls of dresses from my days of splendor, my comfort zone, even to those who found me to be loathed. It's easier to find a familiar monster than try to determine the princes from the beasts.

But, by some author's idea of excitement, we too are captured by fate and we have to be around the Beasts of our life.

For me, I know that it's easy to slip into this idea of hiding up in the prison, mocking the bars and cursing my 'captor'. It's easy to suffer in this martyred stance of Why me? I didn't do anything wrong... and never even see the Beast.

"Tell me, Beauty, do you not find me very ugly?"

"I can not tell a lie... but I believe you are very good-natured."

I thought about this for a long time. I do believe that this compliment, stilted though it may be, was the first that the Beast had received in all the years since his transformation. And, like the human heart, the thing he most desired was to be lovely, or more appropriately, lovable.

Too often, I've passed over the ugliness, the pain, the imprisonment, without even stopping to mutter a brief, "But I believe you are very good-natured."

The fact is, we are surrounded by good-natured monsters who are waiting to hear that they are loved.

The fact is, we are not so beautiful ourselves.

The fact is, souls are lovely.

"But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life. Who is sufficient for these things? For we are not, like so many, peddlers of God's word, but as men of sincerity, as commissioned by God, in the sight of God we speak in Christ." 2 Corinthians 2:14-17

PREP... Frugality Meets Allergy and Things Blow Up

I'm finding that having a quick post once a day or every few days will make sure that I write often enough to keep everybody posted back home, but it doesn't take that long. This might even work.

So, one of my main roles as a PREP girl is to organize, plan and work kitchen. I'm currently having a lot of jobs that involve organizing the kitchen (this means I write shopping lists and help decide on meals, mostly.)

To give you a little perspective on this, we're cooking for roughly 35 people six meals a day: breakfast, AM snack, lunch, PM snack, dinner, and dessert. We have salad at lunch and dinner, fruit at breakfast and every snack, and cookies whenever the team wants them (currently, we haven't made any though... this is sad). The oven has so much personality, including cooking things at a unique rate (depending on the food, it might be fast or slow) and turning on spontaneously. (Not quite spontaneously, actually. It's just really sensitive.) We can use the oven after 8 pm and before 8 am, but not between. We also have two people with lactose/soy allergies. Whew! It's a lot to keep in mind, but it's not all that hard to manage. It is so ridiculously fun. I'm learning so much about managing and budgeting and how to cook for different tastes and needs.

I hope I don't sound like I'm complaining, because I'm not. This has been such a blast, and such a joy! I would do this forever and ever.

However, right now I've hit an obstacle. Does anybody out there know how to make dairy-free scones? The scones are getting made in a few days and I'm trying to figure out how Tessa and Marisa are going to eat... [goes off to check Mrs. V's blog....]

What a blast! I love PREP! I love cooking! I love learning how to work out the managing and the allergies and the health and the gorgeousness of these awesome people!

Google rocks,

Catey

Promise

I promised my mom I would get better about blogging by the time I leave for Camp and Prep Week next week. This is my first attempt at it. I know I really have been pathetic about it, so I'm hoping to remedy that.

So, I should probably start by catching my poor old blog up to date on all that has transpired since my last post. Since my last post on expectation, I have:

- had my cousin Zach stay in town for eleven days this June. I don't think Zach reads my blog, and I'm not sure how often his mom does, but here's my shout-out to Zach. He's an amazing young man. I've known Zach since he was eight or nine or so, and I've always loved him. He's twelve now, and one of the most amazing twelve-year-olds I have ever met for so many reasons. I miss him so much. You can send him back any time, Aunty!

- lived so much I forgot to write about it. I hope this won't happen this summer, because, like I said, I promised my mom I would be better about blogging. So my lack of blogging has had more to do with having too much to write about than not having enough to write about.

- had one of the greatest Carli-ish adventures of my life in the tiny town next to us. My sister Carli waves to everyone - makes their day. So my cousins and my siblings and I decided we'd try it out. An hour and a half later, I saw more smiles on the faces of busy Palmer Lake citizens than ever before. Hopefully, we'll be doing that again tonight.

- I competed in the Inaugural ICCFS National Championship Tournament. What an amazing experience! At my very first tournament with breaks, it was such a delight to be with all the other competitors and learn what true friendship can mean. I've never been in a place where I can encounter anyone in the halls and pray with them in all earnestness and hug them and send them on to their room, even if you're competing against them. I've never seen people who were more in touch with each other's needs and where I heard no backbiting. I could gush for pages on how much I love those people I was with, but I'll refrain.

- I encountered breaks for the first time. Super fun. I loved standing with everyone when they were announced! I broke in all three speeches. I also broke in debate, which was announced later, and was one of the finalists in our first-ever national championship! It was an exciting thing, for sure. I placed in all of my speeches, which was a huge blessing.

- I was an RSA. So delightful!!!! I could gush about these people for ages too, but I'll just say that they are completely wonderful and it was such a joy to work with them. They even put up with me when I was going crazy looking for jobs (usually, this didn't last too long. We were busy!)

-I was a point person setting up the banquet. That was a stretching experience. Usually my jobs involve making people feel happy, not making sure things get done. It grew me a lot though.

- Currently, I'm spending some time with my out-of-state buddy, Ethan, who flew out here a few weeks ago. I've known Ethan since he was about four (he's now eleven) , and it's been pure delight to have him out here with us again.

- Joss and I are planning on taking off again (I have been traveling so much it's ridiculous!!) to go to Tennessee for a communications camp out there for a week, and then I'll be remaining in Tennessee for the rest of the month helping a team of interns prep for the annual tour conference. Basically, I get to do chores and make sure they don't have to worry about anything while they prepare. I can't wait!

So, this summer so far has been about experiencing and learning communion and relationship. I love. I hope this will become more true. I am so excited to see all that God will do this summer and forever. I'm going to do my very best to blog my experiences as much as possible! Keep me accountable, everyone!

Love you all!

Joy!

Catey

Echoes in Ink

Until the Dusk Is Here

Something I was thinking about this past week...

Until the Dusk Is Here

I am... alone here

I am... grieved

Where did you go?

When light and darkness wed

Here, their heroic bouquet

Tossed far away

Won't someone come take me away?

This is nothingness, there is no here

No lilies grow in the dark, our bouquet

Is scrap iron and disappointed, grieved

Glances toward the pain and joy, wed

Take me away! {where will I go?}

Isolation: my desire to flee and go

Thing I fear not to go away

Happy jitters true fear when I wed

Myself to the starless smog here

Captive by enthused and now grieved

Here I bury the bones of my bouquet

Falling away from my gentle bouquet

Longing to fly, to flee, to go

Hoping to remedy the grieved

Wishing I didn't need to run away

Grieving for a time I wasn't here

Singing toward the day we'll wed

Today, grace and truth are wed

The Bridegroom hands me the bouquet

-I realize now how dark it is here

How silent - we go

Out of the net, far and away

My heart is star, not grieved

In the distance, thou art grieved

For those you see to bones and darkness wed

But we are not so far away

We shall together resurrect our bouquet

In light, we shall skip and sing and go

Until the dusk is here

You and I shall go see the grieved

We shall wed so far away

Toss to the sunset our broken bouquet until the dusk is here

"But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light."

Stone

I'm sitting in the back of time
An insignificant half-life, hidden
Clothed by my illusions of thought
Protected by hiding under feeling
I can't even remember what I've lost, I
Don't know the name - overwhelm -

Is the purpose of darkness to overwhelm?
I feel empty inside most of the time
I want love! How desperately I
Want someone to love me. Is good hidden?
No one wants - I cut off feeling -
Me, has heaven given a thought?

I cover myself with him, I thought
Perhaps this stench of death will overwhelm
My own. If I hide my own feeling
Of fear will it work most of the time?
Behind the dead one I remain hidden
That's what I wanted right? I -

I believe - but not like that - I
Like to be alive, but not as much as I thought
Ah, so long as death is hidden
Why does sadness seem to overwhelm?
It seems to control me, consume my time
Why so [un]vulnerable? Where is feeling?

I think I used to indulge my feeling
I'm not sure that that wasn't good. I
Pretended at pain to pass the time
And my mind was my reality, my thought
Truth, true to form, would overwhelm
The recesses of my soul are hidden

But now light will reveal the hidden
I'm not stone any more, but feeling
Can darkness truly overwhelm
My heart behind this dead body? I
Am going to leave behind this filmy thought
This disguise I'd almost kept for all time

You are not hidden - You are my time -
Removed my stone thought - now living feeling
This is me: I am. You overwhelm.

(That's the poem, or something close to it, that's been bouncing around my head since The Great Divorce. It still doesn't make sense to me, but I do love that story. -C)

How Very

What sort of normal person is expected to write an academic essay in 500 words or less on US History II? Just thought I'd make note of that...

Okay, for real, here's a poem I wrote and decided I'd post, since I've been posting disgracefully infrequently.

How very curious, my dear,
How very
I wonder what the trees said that morning
I thought I heard the stars sing aloud
Maybe for joy
Maybe

How very lovely, my dear,
How very
I wonder why the angels sing so quietly
I thought I could hear them
Maybe far away, softly
Maybe

How very thoughtful, my dear,
How very
I wonder why the Christchild comes
I thought I saw him, though he is gone
Maybe here, maybe there
Maybe

How very silent, my dear,
How very
I wonder why the songs are yet here
I thought this darkly silence was unbroken
Maybe there is light even here
Maybe

How very precious, my dear,
How very
I wonder why such a good thing has come
I thought all we were is darkness, fire and sand
Maybe there is more worth to us than that
Maybe

How very irresistible, my dear,
How very
I wonder why I am so drawn to such a small thing
I thought I could run from something so finite
Maybe there is infinity in this child, love
Maybe

Well, back to the 500-words-or-less paper...

The Princess

Once upon a time, there was a princess. She lived in a castle far away by the sea, where dragons used to dwell. One day, the princess threw a pebble from her castle window down into the green-blue sea below. "Oh dear!" cried the princess, as ripples deeper than the waves spread in perfect rings from her pebble. "My treasure is lost forever." You see, quite by accident, the princess had cast this pebble which contained the greatest of her treasures into a sea which she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt would tear it apart and leave it empty and hollow. So the princess dove into the sea, and felt in the waters around her the whisper and shout of a thousand hurtful words, all screaming:
"My heart is torn! There is a hole in my heart!"
The princess cried out and held out her hands, and there was darkness in the palm of her hand. She covered her ears, but there was still much screaming rushing in her ears. She shut her eyes, and yet there was still the sight of tears falling from a drooping seaweed. She was afraid, so she rushed up to the surface, screaming:
"My treasure is not worth the pain!"
Just as she reached the sunlight of the world above, she heard the sound of wings on water, of poetry, of an angel's kiss. "Thank you."
Again, "Thank you."
"Thank you.... thank... you....."
"For what?" The princess said. "Who are you?"
"We are the crying ones beneath the water. You left us a gift. We thank you... thank you..."
"What gift? I left you no gift!""The pebble. You gave us a pebble which encased a grain of truth. The truth has melted away the mud which bound us to the sea floor. Do you see what happened to us now?"
The princess looked around. "I do not see you."
"We are no longer the waves of the ocean, tossed by the foul wind. We are creatures of the air now. Your gift is freeing us. We thank you... thank..."
Their voices faded off into the sound of the wind over the water.
The princess looked into the sea. Her treasure meant so much to her... to give it up would spell doom, wouldn't it?
She had let her treasure go, but had it really left her?

That's what I'm thinking about : )

Hollow Men - for Rebecca

"We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men...

Our dried voices, when

We whisper together

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in the dry grass..."

-TS Eliot, We Are the Hollow Men



"Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me!" Psalm 51:10



"So I went down to the potter's house, and there he was working at his wheel. And the vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in th epotter's hand and he reworked it into another vessle, as it seemed good to the potter to do..." -Jeremiah 18:3-4



"then let men kill, which cannot share

Let blood and flesh be mud mire

Scheming imagined, passion willed

Freedom a drug that's bought and sold



Giving to steal and cruel kind

A heart to fear, to doubt a mind

To differ a disease of same

Conform the pinnacle of am."

-E.E. Cummings, my father moved through dooms of love



"But who are you, O man, to answer back to God? Will what is molded say to its molder, 'Why have you made me like this?'" - Romans 9:20

The Hollow Men
I was the darkness swallowed up the sun
I was the plague on Egypt's plain
I was the ice in God's hand
I was the stone that rolled from
I am the Hollow in the stone

You look at my face
My nose - aristocratic, called
My mouth - laughter, heard
My beauty - revealed
My eyes - what heart?

I felt above the pounding of
Rain or hammers or hailstone
Like bones, and I felt simplicity
Drain my ears
Hmmm.
Crack.

I heard above the sound
Of rushing waters
Of crickets in the early morning
Of bells from one thousand churches
Of the Angel of Death
Passing over

Thump. Ump. Thump. Umpthump.

I felt within and above and beyond
A sound that could only mean
One thing:
That thing that makes men's minds
Turn to oatmeal
And makes men's hearts
Turn from stone to sand

What sound? What song?
Only this:
I love you.

I am full.

The Smell of Thought

I wanted to hope for a gift
Something set free from a cage with wings
And desperately, I hoped to gain
Something that would free me too

But I could not be freed
Until I could learn to give
And though I hated the inscrutable wind
I tried to scream my whispered warning

To it as I longed for pale sunsets
And words that would give me
Some sort of wish
That would give me hope

But hope is a quality quickly fleeting
And though I loathed the smell
Of thought, I thought
And thought of things

That no mortal should ever think of
No mere man should ever write of
But I did, because the cage demanded
Escape, and escape was of the outside world

And the outside world held disgust
And I wanted to understand that disgust
And find a way to make it beautiful
For it was not wrong to write

About wrong, because for wrong to be
Right must be, for hate to be,
Love must triumph. And I made
It triumph in every thought

And though I loathed the smell of
Blood, I thought of blood and water
And how the sky would pour forth stars
And damage the unsuspecting earth below

And I wondered how long it would be
Before another thinker would enter and
Think the dark and troubled thoughts I thought
But none would come for they feared

That light would never be back.
Except for one, and that was of
Another time, another year, moment
And dimension, and I longed

For another thought, a thought of joy
And a thought that would remove this
Elephant from my chest and
Let my heart beat freely again

It did not come and I drowned.
Darkness is not unlike water and water
Makes one drown when it is all around
And suddenly, light and darkness

Made their solemn dance around me
Like a wedding march, marrying themselves together
I screamed.
Because I was drowned and I

Could not see or breathe…
But it was not the end.
Light and dark are two means
To kill and to birth

And to embrace the light from
The side of the dark
As a great illumination watches
Is to find a joy that cannot be found

To fight an enemy that cannot be killed
To find a way that does not exist
To eat from the hand that made you
To know a God who cannot be known.

I keep writing poetry. Once again, I'm trying to improve my contest entry, and this one isn't even the right form, so I decided to post it. Poetry is a raw art and is a language of thought, best understood when overheard, I've decided.This one was just expression of something I can't understand. But I'm trying. Echoes in ink, C.

Rethinking Independence

Today is Independence Day. Millions of people across the United States of America will be celebrating this day that changed history, when we declared ourselves independent from Britain and our own country, governed by God and under God.

But is independence really what we're celebrating?

Independence is simply the lack of dependency on anything- a mother country, a monarch. Independence is being NOT a part of something.

Our Constitution declares that the citizens of our country are dependent on each other for the good of all. That we see plainly in all people that they are equal and given certain unalienable rights by God, among these, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

That is not independence from everything. That is dependence on the God who gave us the rights and freedoms that we experience in the United States of America. That is dependency on each other also.

It isn't independence. It's freedom.

Freedom is what gives us the right, unalienable, to have eternal life and to shout that message from every rooftop, hill and church pulpit.

Freedom is what gives us the right to make decisions based on conviction and not fear.

Freedom is what gives us the right to speak out against what is wrong and defend what is right.

Freedom is what our country was founded on, NOT independence.

But are we being given independence or freedom now?

I have loved to say that in America, we have the freedom to choose our religion. And we are. But in the days of "tolerance", our freedoms as Christians are squashed. Right now, the Bible is illegal in my state because it discriminates against homosexuals. Christians are painted in this country as misguided, rigidly conservative, backsliding and above all, judgmental. Tolerance, we are taught! Tolerance for everyone but us?

Movies, books and television with Christian undertones are not accepted by general society. Everywhere non-secular (Christian or not) views are taught, they aren't accepted, not only by many students, but by overseers. (If you haven't seen "Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed", it sheds some excellent light on the subject)

What about the rights of parents? Homeschooling was almost made illegal to uncertified parents in the state of California this year.

Maybe it's time to rethink independence. I think we're not looking for that, because it gives us this void, depraved "independence" of God. I think what we're really celebrating- really longing for- is freedom.

So let's remember the freedoms that we may have in this country. Never forget those freedoms and never let them die.

Happy Freedom Day.