What is it about the 20s?

     I just had a moment to sit with my last issue of American Bungalow. Yes, it was due to be removed from the store shelves a few days ago, and being that it is a quarterly publication, you can see that life has gotten the better of me. Yes, I paid bills and have laundry in, so it's not an entirely indulgent moment, but at least it was a moment.
     People have asked me about my fascination with the Arts and Crafts era and why it got started. I can say I have NO idea. I am caught up by the revival that has lasted nearly 3 times longer than the original period. If I was a new ager, I suppose I could say something like, "Well, in one of my past lives I was a finish carpenter in Oak Park, and moved to Pasadena to hone my craft." I do not have family that ever owned, (that I recollect) a bungalow, although I am sure my grandfather probably built several in his carpentry years in the San Gabriel Valley. My cousin recently sent me some old family photos, and there are several that I wish I could get past the people subjects and get in the doors of the homes behind them. Wonderful period homes that I am sure people thought were humble and plain at the time.
     What is it about the architecture, textures, hues, and warmth that is so appealing? Properly done, I would guess most people would think it looks like someone's grandmother's house. As it should. But as mid-century and danish modern streamlined the American home style, it left no room for hand rubbed oak, and chenille-covered feather beds, and inglenooks with crackling fires and creaky wooden rockers strewn with quilts, and hand painted landscapes, and kitchens with banquettes waiting for hungry children to devour the day's baking. The deep colors and soft warmth faded into bright, sleek, and stainless brilliance that attacks the eyes and makes the heart feel clinical.
     The foreword in the magazine made me cry. The author ventures to his childhood bungalow as safe haven from a power failure. His mother is gone, hopefully home with the Lord as has mine, but he is recalling the safety of the home and the memories it holds. I don't have such a place, well, not a physical one, but I could visualize the warmth he felt returning to his mother's home. The walls were his private historian, psychiatrist, and rampart.
     I'm not one to say that things or items are really important, but I do say that the feelings evoked from them are incredibly important. The older I get, the more I long for that feeling of simplicity. Maybe that is why I love the Craftsman era. Many people stopped and took notice that their surroundings were so much better if they mimicked nature and the good and pleasant things that God had already designed. How is it that we want to create things that are so far removed from His design?
     In a recent tour of the Gamble House, the docent was saying (which I had heard before) that there are no right angles in the home anywhere. Everything is eased off (with great effort), including all the paving bricks in the drive. EVERYTHING. There are no right angles in nature, and so the Greene brothers followed that design element. It just feels... right.
     I have always said that I want a sunny bungalow kitchen with a very large lady (think Esther Rolle) standing there in a crisp floral apron, making some sort of summer salad with fruits and marshmallows, and when you come in, she hugs you until you disappear. Maybe that's my version of heaven? Perhaps. Maybe it is like The Shack? LOL. I don't know.
     But I do want to know how we return to that. I am not interested in taking the whole world with me. I'm ok with this being a private affair. But I don't want to be questioned and asked to explain why I love it so much. It's just me. And since I myself don't have any right angles, I guess it just fits.

Lost in the music

Just bought a new album on iTunes. Rarely do I buy a whole album. Mostly I just pick and choose and "buffet" most of my musical selections. That harkens back to the days of 45s and not wanting to invest so much of my teenage money on B sides that mostly seemed like fillers, and certainly never got air play on the AM radio.

But in the new age of technology, I purchased an iTunes LP. Apparently it has tons of extra stuff. That is nice and all, but I try to remember to strip away the extras and be about the music. This particular album, called The Goat Rodeo Sessions, features YoYo Ma in an odd mix of bluegrass/classical melodies. It is way different and intriguing and I LOVE it.

As I sit here taking in the newness of this product, my mind is racing about what draws me to it.

In first grade I desperately wanted to play the cello. I remember the band teachers giving an assembly, and I remember it was the only time I approached the stage of the multipurpose room ever... much less to talk to a teacher I did not know. I was mesmerized by the cello. The smell of it. The deepness of the wood color. It seemed massive to me, but was not intimidating. The sound it made resonated in my chest and filled me with notes. This was something new and beautiful, and it offered to take me on a delightful journey into the mastery of music.

I think the dream only lasted a few hours, because when I returned home my mom told me that cello lessons were most certainly out of the question. It was confusing to hear "no music lessons for you" while my sibling was practicing his trumpet down the hall. I think my parents did a lot to encourage my brother to like education. They didn't have to do that with me, which I am sure was a relief for them, but I do wonder what worlds would have opened up for me had I been allowed to rosin up that bow at such a young age. My determination to create might just have taken me even further than I could imagine.

In the interview on the album, they define Goat Rodeo as-

"A Goat Rodeo AKA Goat Rope, is about the most polite term used by aviation people (and others in higher risk situations) to describe a scenario that requires about 100 things to go right at once if you intend to walk away from it."

That is definition 2 in the urban dictionary. I prefer definition 3...

"A chaotic situation, often one that involves several people, each with a different agenda/vision/perception of what's going on; a situation that is very difficult, despite energy and efforts, to instill any sense or order."

There you have it. Our lives are most certainly goat rodeos. OK, I don't want to project that on you. MY life is a goat rodeo. This is why I am so enamored with this album. The whole thought behind it makes me realize that many things need to come together to make up ME. A ME with any sense of order. A ME I can walk away from in the end because things went together right. 

Newsflash, I like things to go right. ALL THE TIME. I like to make sure that I am right, you are right, they are right, the situation is right, and the outcome is right. Ugh. Reality check. This pretty much never happens. I get in trouble if I am too worried about me or you or them being right. 

Lately, I have been doing an inventory of things that make up ME. The things that I thought were rightly included in my life but were somehow dropped by the wayside. The things that at one time kept me sane, grounded me, molded me, whatever you want to call it, that were swapped for survival skills or different things that the world interjected into my rodeo. I would like to offer that I am sure that God knew what he was doing when he started my life rolling. And, as I have learned this week in bible study, He is El Roi- the God who sees. Me. All the time. Do you think He gets sad when I give up His right designs for me to conform to the world? (Yes, yes, Romans, I know...) What about when I run away from the world because I am off-balance and missing the things that I perceived were crucial elements for my core being? Or when I hide because I am not heard or valued or appreciated, so I give up? I hope I am not missing the things that need to go right for me to walk away from this life intact.

Ultimately I know He wants me find His design in myself. To find His order in my being.

And, if I like this cello music, even with odd banjos and mandolins thrown in, then know that it is so because He breathed that creativity and vision IN me to see it, hear it, and appreciate it. And maybe not everyone will, but then they may not see, hear, and appreciate ME either, but I am here and designed for SOMEONE just like this music is.

The artists knew that someone out there would "understand" this offering. There is a track called 13:8. Curious, I searched all the 13:8s in the bible. 1 Chronicles says, 

"David and all the Israelites were celebrating with all their might before God, with songs and with harps, lyres, timbrels, cymbals and trumpets."

I don't know if that is what they were referring too, but I would like to go out on a limb and say, IT FITS. It fits right. A bunch of things going on at once to produce something amazing… like my life. Things that make me up might not look "right" individually, but I know that I am God's design, and I most certainly will find order and beautiful music in His plan for me.

What's church for anyway?

Saw a lady in church yesterday. I don't know her. There's lots of people I don't know now. We're getting bigger and have 2 services. Anyway, from the moment this lady walked in, she was crying. Not a sniffle type, sorta disturbed with something cry, but a deep hurt cry that was written on her face. Been there, done that. There have been several times where I couldn't hold it together even walking in the door. My heart broke for her. Continuing with my MO that I am blunt, but not bold, I just sat in my own seat and prayed for her. I was going to go see her, so I looked back, and our pastor's wife was giving her a hug. "Good." I thought. "She's being ministered to." Later at prayer, she had a TON of people praying for her. Even better.
I continued to watch her throughout the service, checking to see if she needed someone. Then, another woman went to her and handed a note with her phone number on it. I read her lips, "Call me whenever you need to." I continued to pray for her. Find peace. Listen to the message. Hear God speaking in the music. Communion. Oh my goodness! The bread and wine. Your burden is HIS burden. I wondered if it helped. I know sometimes in my own pain my cynicism can put up an impenetrable wall. I don't want to sing. I don't want to hear about God helping others when clearly I am in need. I don't want to see the happy plastic faces going on with their lives. Sadly, you know you are in that state, and you can't get past it. All you can do is crawl mentally and physically into church, and hope that you snap out of it. That someone, anyone, will help.
And then today my friend Kelly posted a short article about 2 kinds of sermons, the Gospel message and the self-help message. How so often the sermons are about "fix this about you", or "that about you", or "this about the world", when clearly the Word that should be going out sometimes is plain and simple that God loved you so much He DIED for you. No matter how much we wail about our circumstances, it doesn't change that. It NEVER changes that. Sure, we can see all of our failures as we check off the "how to get better, be better at life" suggestions, but seeing our one simple failure and then realizing that we need a Savior fixes it all. IT ALL.
Hebrews 10 is rolling around in my head. Yesterday was a visual, tangible example. Communion. By the blood. Cleanse us from our conscience. Don't give up meeting together. The woman came to church with a hurt heart. Had she not, she would not have experienced the love of Christ for her. She doesn't know me. I prayed for her. She may not know the people that stood with her. They prayed for her. The other woman with the phone number she may not know either. I am sure she prayed for her. Don't give up meeting together. 
What's church for anyway? I answered my own question. It's about God showing up to meet together. With us. However He finds us. Together.

Stop sign? Merge? Autobahn? Seriously?

I am almost 48 years old. I once had the thought that I would die when I was 86. At first this morning when I was doing the math, I thought I was halfway there. Again, a point in your thought process that says, Gosh I'm glad she doesn't teach math.
At 47 you feel pretty old and pretty young at the same time. It's a weird spot. You can't see anything, but you still want to read. You can't really hear anything, unless it's 80s music. You suddenly understand why all the middle age people in your childhood memories ate spicy stuff. Because they couldn't really taste the bland stuff. Ugh. Bizarre.
So here we are, wondering why it's stop and go, yes and no, here or there. (Rats, now I sound like Katy Perry. Sorry Josh) The one thing you would hope at 47 is that you would know what you're doing. >s, chime in. <s, do the same. I get that we aren't supposed to know it all. John Denver has a line in one of his songs that went something like,  "If our lives could lie before us like a straight and narrow highway, so that we could see forever long before we took the ride, we would never look to heaven, make a wish, or climb a mountain, 'cuz we'd always know the answer, what's on the other side.
I feel like I should be able to see the signs. But I can't. I feel like I am driving in the dark. (Insert something profound here) I don't know how fast to go, how slow, park, speed, anything. I think at 47 I should be going 47. Not too fast, but fast enough to get somewhere in a timely manner.
What if I miss the off ramp? Have you ever done that? 3 miles later with still no off ramp you kick yourself. Stupid me, I didn't see the sign. Now I am paying for it. Or worse yet, you run out of gas before you make it there. That's just as scary. Sure, on the other side you can think of the good things about the trouble. But during it you just want all the information to be apparent. If this, then that. Like, if you go over 65, you will get a ticket. If you park here, we will tow your car. Easy peasy.
I do find peace in obedience, but obedience finds stupidity in me. Mostly, I need a "no loitering"- in - life sign. That would be helpful. Like, one that falls on my head when I am supposed to be "moving along".
Yes. Signs. Most definitely are our friends. Or my friend. Maybe you don't like them. Maybe you like it if there are no boundaries. I used to be that way. A long time ago. Like half of my life ago. Is that 24? ;)

5 months later...

I realized today that all of my friends were their updating blogs, and I remembered I had one too. Ironically, the last entry was the day before the car accident. I wonder why I haven't been back here since? Maybe because all of my days are filled with work, physical therapy, and paperwork like I've never encountered? I suppose that's a fairly good excuse.
Truth is, writing helps my brain relax. So it's safe to say I haven't been relaxed in the last 5 months. Yup, I think that's accurate. Everyday I have been inundated with to do lists, both written and brain-recited. I guess that makes me normal. Woo hoo.
For the last few days though, I have noticed a song bird in my yard that hasn't lived here previously. Beats me what kind it is, (chalk that up to a long ago, failed attempt at bird watching knowledge) but I can tell you it has a beautiful voice. The crazy thing is, it's a voice that I've heard before. I know that you are thinking I'm retarded and of course bird songs are all the same if it's the same kind of bird. But, what I mean to say is, it's been a long time since I've noticed a bird song. Like, a REALLY long time.
And I am thinking, did they stop singing? Did I stop listening? It's kind of a cold, hard, reality slap in the face, since I do know the answer. And then I wonder, WHEN did I stop listening? Last year? Last decade? Last millennium?
Once upon a time I was a person that knew when the birds would sing, the breeze would blow, the sun would shine. I could eat an ice cream cone with reckless abandon, have nothing to do and be really good at it, and drop everything to have some fun. Now, I don't look at the yard as a habitat but as a stress, I worry about my cholesterol, and I give up play times for chores. I'm plugged in, networked out, and driven by schedules. And truth is, I don't like the person that doesn't hear the bird song. This new 10. something version of me isn't making me happy.
So I think, I just have to schedule in some fun time. And then I realize I've already failed. Ugh. I have to force myself to hear the bird song? Really? I didn't used to have to. I just ... did. I think that God sent me that little whatever-kind-of-bird-it-is to wake me up. Not just literally, which it does, but figuratively. Maybe it flies around behind me all day. I wouldn't know. You know the song lyric, "You dance over me, while I am unaware... You sing all around, but I never hear the sound..." I am amazed by what God does, when I stop to think about it. Which is exactly my problem. Stopping.

Sunrise/Sunset

OK, so this morning, my devotion was on trials. (Thanks to Lisa for my book). It's been sort of a theme in the book for a month or so, and given the month I have had, oddly appropriate. I was thinking to myself after reading it that I was a little tired of having to be reminded of trials as a constant in my life. Like, really, really over it. I was just wishing I could start my morning with a warm fuzzy rather than a cold sandpapery, and I was really hoping that it wasn't setting me up for the day...
So, I get in the car to go to work, and the sunrise was AMAZING. I was thanking God and thinking about how beautiful it was, and it hit me that it wouldn't have been nearly as pretty without all the clouds. And then I got to thinking about clouds being a symbol of trouble and such, (shameless add; looking at them from both sides now) and I saw that the glory of the light shining through was so much more amplified by the "trouble" that attempted to drown it out. (And at this point you are thinking you are REALLY thankful you don't live in my head, and I can accept that). I kept staring at them all the way down the 15, and as I got closer to work, there were more and more clouds that were low, (Then I started singing old Temeculi-Temecula songs about "sunshine through the mist", and started to annoy myself so I stopped) Finally it just turned into fog that enveloped the immediate area and it hit me that those poor Tmec people didn't get to see the trouble or the glory at all, they were just stuck in the mire. The reality of the fact that I got to see something mere minutes earlier that they were robbed of made me sorta sad.
I really tried to find the good in the fog, but I couldn't. There wasn't anything helpful or beautiful about it, and while its cousin "cloud trouble" was losing its battle to shield the light above, the fog was doing a pretty good job of it. Was it trying to be a "trouble" too? It was entirely different. It was deadness, silence, nothingness. The absence of light and glory. Nothing about it was alive and vibrant. It just "was". Ick.
As the day went on, I realized that God wanted me to remember that there ARE all sorts of things that try to mask His glory and light. And depending on your perspective, sometimes it actually works. The fog was pretty adept at it. The clouds, not so much. They only served to show that if your perspective is right, you see Him MORE than you see the trouble, and the trouble actually makes Him more appealing.
I know that the clouds show up from time to time, and most of the time it seems for me, pretty cloudy, but it still has its glory mornings.
I believe that choosing not to live in the fog should be a priority. I feel like I have been given a brain and a spirit to help control over whether I live under the fog, or move out from under it. And there's where I find myself today. I am praying for God to tell me if I should be rising up and out so I can see His glory, or staying put and only hearing the story of the beautiful sunrise happening above. I believe it's better to be up where there's weather and things happening, than stuck in the mire of nothingness and oppression. I could miss it altogether if I am not quick to discern and apply.

I am not going to watch the weather report tonight. Tomorrow will bring what it brings. Apparently, my book is better at telling the weather than they are on channel 7.

It's semantics really...

  Saw an interesting discussion this week on whining and complaining. Since things like that cause me to ponder incessantly, and sometimes needlessly, I know I gave it much more thought than most "normal" people would have. (More on that quote in a later post)
  In an attempt to sort it out in my head, I decided to add to my "blogdom" and spew a few thoughts about the pair.
  First let me say that I don't believe anyone over the age of 8 can functionally whine. I mean, I guess they CAN, but honestly, I think they know this is ineffective, so they really don't attempt it. I have seen (er, heard) these people do it, but I would venture to say that they are probably joking, reiterating an interaction with a child, or merely passing by on the way to an un-annoying tambour.
  Now, I believe that people can "perceive" that someone is whining, but since we all don't have the exact same diagnostic skills, labeling someone as a whiner is truly just an expression of your own opinion. How do you know that I would think they were whining? You don't. So don't tell me how I am to perceive them.
  Complaining is a really fine line as well, because there are thousands of interpretations of an "acceptable way to complain". I think most people will label others as having complaints or complainers if they don't agree with THEM. That's sad, because probably there is someone else that would point out the exact same issue, and they also would look at it as an observable feature that needs correcting. Since they agree with the "complainer" it would quickly become a topic, and not a complaint. They might be able to work together for the greater good, and a favorable outcome could be reached.
  I believe anyone that brings up "what some would perceive as a complaint but others would look at as an observable feature that needs correcting" has a right to be heard. I do not believe that they need to bring a solution because often times they aren't in a position to solve the problem, and are bringing their grievance to someone who can.
  I will always listen to someone who brings an issue to me. Sometimes I can fix it, sometimes I can't, but I can't make a determination that I am not going to listen or help based on their modality of expressing the thought. How pompous it would be of me to turn away someone that may only know how to whine or complain to express thought, frustration, or sensitivity. How do I know that wasn't a survival tactic for them all of their life? How can I shut out the opportunity to minister and help because I don't want to be "annoyed"? Argh!
  I can say with certainty that I have brought complaints to God on several occasions. And it's possible that at some point my cry for help resembled whining in some instances. I can also say for certain that I didn't have solutions to those issues. I am very happy that He still listens to me and wants to help. He calls me to trust when I don't understand the wilderness and when I want to cry and give up. I have to focus on the trust, and He can handle it if I lapse in my adeptness at conveying the thought, frustration, or sensitivity.
  It's really a matter of semantics, but mostly it's a matter of wanting to see people as God does. To remember that He loved them first, in the muck and mire in which they came, and He really, really wants me to do the same. Did He pull me out of my icky stuff for me to never help anyone with theirs? I don't think so. So people, complain away. I'm practicing listening in love and understanding why your heart is hurting. I think that's what Jesus would do!