Shortly after moving here, we started to call Reality LA our home church. It was accidental, really. I had been "church shopping" around the area and wasn't finding anywhere that suited us. I wanted a church that was led by the Spirit, grounded in the Word, with a passion for the lost outside and inside it's doors, a heart for the broken, culturally relevant in how it communicated God's love, and community focused. The search was becoming dreary and when a few different people mentioned a great church down in West Hollywood I thought, "what the hay" and decided to check it out if only to get a reprieve from week after week of dryness. I was by myself as we didn't want to put our kids through the process. I recall vividly the over-whelming since of "home" within the walk from the parking garage to the auditorium. By the end of the service I was torn-I could tell this church was everything that church should be, and be about and I knew I wanted me and my family to be apart of something like that. However, I wasn't all to keen on LA at that time let alone driving the 30 minutes into it's belly. But the Spirit of God was there, and the people there were genuinely seeking to know Him and making Him known in profound and real ways, and if Jon was on board than I was eager to be on too.
Jon was in the thick of finishing up his degree online at that time so for the first few months just the boys and me went while Jon stayed back utilizing the quiet time in the house to write papers and read. During that period my heart changed towards LA and Hollywood. Where before I was appalled by it's vanity, it's aggressiveness, it's grit and grime, through the work of the Holy Spirit I fell in love with it not because of it but despite all of it. I found myself praying earnestly for LA-for all those self-absorbed, easily agitated, and consumerist driven people, and lo and behold, the drive there became a non-issue for me. I was happy to do it. Still, driving in on a Sunday morning versus a Monday afternoon is a totally different beast. 30 minutes become 2 hours and as such mid-week opportunities to serve and have community with our church family was almost impossible.
Jon first joined us on Easter service that year, and he agreed Reality was a great church but the drive...oh, that drive. The issue was never fully resolved. I knew something had to change one Sunday when Jon said the boys and I could go without him: he wasn't in the mood to drive into LA. I prayed for God to change his heart for LA and Hollywood like He had done to mine, but weeks passed and the drive to Sunset Blvd was becoming a bigger and bigger issue for him. He said it wasn't just about Sunday mornings but about the lack of community we had with our church family during the week. This had been troubling me too, and so of course I started to pray that God would move us to Pasadena. Nothing changed. As much as I wanted there to be a solution, I knew it wasn't likely. We share one car, we live a few miles away from where Jon works, and we're strapped enough living in an apartment in the suburbs. I don't want to assume it, but I can only assume the solution is to find a church near our home. And this is something i'm quite hesitant to assume. I know human logic is not a substitute for His will, let alone His wisdom. Still, I also know something here is amiss.
A few weeks ago we began the "church shopping" process again. It's been difficult for me. I have issues with the church. I don't like most. I don't like how they misrepresent the heart of Christ, the purpose of the church. I don't like how they've turned church into a christian club, or a political party. I don't like how they've turned it into a non-profit, watered it down, trampled the urgency of the message with complacency. I don't like how they've used it to sell books and audio cassettes and shirts and mugs and fish decals and figurines and prayer shawls. I don't like how they've replaced reverence with casualness, awe-inspiring truth with feel good, make your own messages. I don't like how they don't seem to truly care about those outside of their doors. I don't like how they've chosen indignation and turned up noses over agape love and open arms. I don't like it one bit. However, I do love what the church could be and should be about; I whole heartily want us to be part of the solution, not the problem.
To know Him and make Him known.
There really is no beginning, middle and end to this post. I don't know anything other than I know something needs to change and I want God to be director of that change. More or less, I am processing.
Tuesday, May 07, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Prelude, or thought process behind the next blog.
I was visiting a church with a friend this past Sunday. Unlike our home church, this one is just up the road, a few minutes away...in the suburbs.
We arrived early having given ourselves more than enough time to get there (no doubt a years worth of habit driving into the heart of Hollywood every Sunday morning) and were lingering in the back of the church talking with our friends. I was introduced to a lady, a new to LA transplant, a Mom, a wife, and a social worker. Currently she lives in the valley, and she expressed to me her great desire to be out here with us in the suburbs. To me this was humorous. Here I was, a reluctant suburbanite, wishing I was in the city, attending my church in it's heart and there she was, not necessarily LA proper, but closer than I to it's nucleus, wishing this suburban slice of paradise was hers. I offered encouragement, reminding her Christ put his ministry in the city and not in it's safe and tidy surrounding areas but she wasn't biting. She explained to me she wanted safe neighborhoods, clean streets, and good schools for her son; but of course then in the morning she would drive back out to the Valley to do the work of Christ. I was a stranger to her, and so I nodded politely as if all of a sudden that made perfect sense to me. But it didn't.
Compartmentalization.That's the word that came to mind. No, I don't think Christians who want to live in the suburbs are a bunch of compartmentalized believers who only want to give and to live unto the Lord what they deem and when they deem, but I do think it's a very natural tendency of this sort of christian and I do think many aren't even aware of it. Nor, I should add, do I think Christians should abandon the suburbs and live only in large metropolitan areas, though more probably should.
Spoiler alert: I love cities. I am of that sort, that weird group of people who get energized by a downtown, who think public transportation is the greatest thing ever, and who would rather have a picnic in an over crowded city park than a bbq in ones own backyard.
Never the less, here I am, a stay at home mom living in one of the best suburbs of LA. I don't have to worry about locking my car doors at night or my children getting approached by someone peddling pills at the playground or finding pornography laying in the street or explaining why that man is dressed like a women or why the old guy keeps mumbling inappropriate words to himself. But I do wonder if that's not the problem.
Many flee to the suburbs to get away from the filth of the city, to raise their children safely and wholesomely. However, as believers Christ has commanded us to make disciples of all nations, baptizing them, teaching them (Matthew 28:18-20); we are to be the salt of the earth, a light in a dark world (Matthew 5:13-15); we are to overcome evil with good (Romans 12:20); we are to feed the hungry, take care of the poor (Matthew 25:31-40); we are to preach the gospel to the poor, heal the broken hearted, preach deliverance to the captives, and to the blind, sight (Luke 4:18). We, as followers of Christ, as His disciples, should not set out to attain the most comfortable life we are able to find, or make. Our life, and that of our families should be in total pursuit of His word towards us and the world around us. We are not to pick and choose that which best suits the ideal perception of life, but in contrast, we are to leave everything behind and follow Him. He calls for radical obedience, not stifled compliance. If we knowingly set out to live somewhere void of such opportunities, or a lesser degree of them, to make Him known than we are in direct disobedience of His calling towards us as His disciples.
For some of us though that is not the case either because that is not our intention of living in the suburbs or because perhaps the suburbs are where God has brought us, where jobs have landed, or where family units have been established. Some of us in fact would rather be in the city with the grit and the grim, where sin looks like sin and the lost look lost. In the suburbs however it's like a house of smoke and mirrors. Perfect people with perfect yards and perfect yoga clothes and horrible music and film preferences. We don't know how to relate. We don't know how to peel the veneer. There is no unifying force like a social heritage, or a collective culture. However, we do have Christ. How then do we as Christians live radically in the Suburbs???
We arrived early having given ourselves more than enough time to get there (no doubt a years worth of habit driving into the heart of Hollywood every Sunday morning) and were lingering in the back of the church talking with our friends. I was introduced to a lady, a new to LA transplant, a Mom, a wife, and a social worker. Currently she lives in the valley, and she expressed to me her great desire to be out here with us in the suburbs. To me this was humorous. Here I was, a reluctant suburbanite, wishing I was in the city, attending my church in it's heart and there she was, not necessarily LA proper, but closer than I to it's nucleus, wishing this suburban slice of paradise was hers. I offered encouragement, reminding her Christ put his ministry in the city and not in it's safe and tidy surrounding areas but she wasn't biting. She explained to me she wanted safe neighborhoods, clean streets, and good schools for her son; but of course then in the morning she would drive back out to the Valley to do the work of Christ. I was a stranger to her, and so I nodded politely as if all of a sudden that made perfect sense to me. But it didn't.
Compartmentalization.That's the word that came to mind. No, I don't think Christians who want to live in the suburbs are a bunch of compartmentalized believers who only want to give and to live unto the Lord what they deem and when they deem, but I do think it's a very natural tendency of this sort of christian and I do think many aren't even aware of it. Nor, I should add, do I think Christians should abandon the suburbs and live only in large metropolitan areas, though more probably should.
Spoiler alert: I love cities. I am of that sort, that weird group of people who get energized by a downtown, who think public transportation is the greatest thing ever, and who would rather have a picnic in an over crowded city park than a bbq in ones own backyard.
Never the less, here I am, a stay at home mom living in one of the best suburbs of LA. I don't have to worry about locking my car doors at night or my children getting approached by someone peddling pills at the playground or finding pornography laying in the street or explaining why that man is dressed like a women or why the old guy keeps mumbling inappropriate words to himself. But I do wonder if that's not the problem.
Many flee to the suburbs to get away from the filth of the city, to raise their children safely and wholesomely. However, as believers Christ has commanded us to make disciples of all nations, baptizing them, teaching them (Matthew 28:18-20); we are to be the salt of the earth, a light in a dark world (Matthew 5:13-15); we are to overcome evil with good (Romans 12:20); we are to feed the hungry, take care of the poor (Matthew 25:31-40); we are to preach the gospel to the poor, heal the broken hearted, preach deliverance to the captives, and to the blind, sight (Luke 4:18). We, as followers of Christ, as His disciples, should not set out to attain the most comfortable life we are able to find, or make. Our life, and that of our families should be in total pursuit of His word towards us and the world around us. We are not to pick and choose that which best suits the ideal perception of life, but in contrast, we are to leave everything behind and follow Him. He calls for radical obedience, not stifled compliance. If we knowingly set out to live somewhere void of such opportunities, or a lesser degree of them, to make Him known than we are in direct disobedience of His calling towards us as His disciples.
For some of us though that is not the case either because that is not our intention of living in the suburbs or because perhaps the suburbs are where God has brought us, where jobs have landed, or where family units have been established. Some of us in fact would rather be in the city with the grit and the grim, where sin looks like sin and the lost look lost. In the suburbs however it's like a house of smoke and mirrors. Perfect people with perfect yards and perfect yoga clothes and horrible music and film preferences. We don't know how to relate. We don't know how to peel the veneer. There is no unifying force like a social heritage, or a collective culture. However, we do have Christ. How then do we as Christians live radically in the Suburbs???
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
I have no idea how many times I declared something along this line,
"There is no way I would ever live in LA."
In hindsight, and since that's exactly where I've ended up, I wish I would have gone with Florence or Madrid or perhaps even Maui, but no, and in all sincerity, fortunately, God brought us to the precise place He had planned for us. It's been nearly a year since we made the move from rural Southern Oregon to the suburbs of Los Angeles. Though it feels like yesterday and simultaneously like always. For some of us (ahem, my husband) the relocation is still a work in progress-the contentment might be present but the joy in it has yet to present itself to him. To him, Los Angeles is a career pit stop to somewhere better-somewhere with rivers rushing down mountains, forests littered with pine needles and fallen logs, and air so clear and clean that when you breathe you add an extra day to the end of your life. Which I have to agree, sounds fantastic. But God continues to encourage me in something bigger, something not about what I think life ought to be about but about what He says life ought to be about. And it's not about me; it's not about comfort; it's not about taking vacations; it's not about owning a house; it's not about 401Ks; it's not about retirement savings; it's not about any kind of savings, really. Nor is it about living somewhere with great schools, clean air, and amazing surroundings-it's about living a life completely devoted to knowing Him and making Him known; to showing His love and proclaiming His Word. As benign as many of my longings are I know if they are my focus, if they are my intent, and my desires then i'm terribly amiss on everything.
Knowing this is often more than it's not- easier in practice than its application. I was not so fortunate to grow up middle class let alone upper-middle class - we were poor. My parents had a landscaping company during the summer and a few weeks here and there in the winter. During the busy summer months my little sister and I would be forced to tag along from yard to yard to yard. Unlike my older sister we were too young to be of any assistance, and as such we would swim when there was a pool, or sit under the shade of a tree when there was a tree, and when there was not we would lay prostrate under my fathers 1979 Jeep Wrangler in attempt to escape the hot Texas heat. Sometimes we would earn $5 to weed a garden bed, money I deemed 'savings for summer camp', though i'm most certain I spent each crisp Abraham Lincoln on candy at the corner gas station. But during those idle hours loitering in the shade I would daydream, daydream of having a nice house like the yards of the homes my parents poured sweat mowing, and of the worry free life I imagined went with the periwinkles and edged sidewalks. Now, as that grown-up I envisioned so long ago, the little girl that was me with her high hopes of a comfortable life has to monthly- sometimes weekly-often daily come to terms with kingdom perspective versus entitlement misconception. I remind myself, and my children to their annoyance, we are due nothing. Everything is an extra, even the air we breath, the sometimes smoggy brown LA air.
"There is no way I would ever live in LA."
In hindsight, and since that's exactly where I've ended up, I wish I would have gone with Florence or Madrid or perhaps even Maui, but no, and in all sincerity, fortunately, God brought us to the precise place He had planned for us. It's been nearly a year since we made the move from rural Southern Oregon to the suburbs of Los Angeles. Though it feels like yesterday and simultaneously like always. For some of us (ahem, my husband) the relocation is still a work in progress-the contentment might be present but the joy in it has yet to present itself to him. To him, Los Angeles is a career pit stop to somewhere better-somewhere with rivers rushing down mountains, forests littered with pine needles and fallen logs, and air so clear and clean that when you breathe you add an extra day to the end of your life. Which I have to agree, sounds fantastic. But God continues to encourage me in something bigger, something not about what I think life ought to be about but about what He says life ought to be about. And it's not about me; it's not about comfort; it's not about taking vacations; it's not about owning a house; it's not about 401Ks; it's not about retirement savings; it's not about any kind of savings, really. Nor is it about living somewhere with great schools, clean air, and amazing surroundings-it's about living a life completely devoted to knowing Him and making Him known; to showing His love and proclaiming His Word. As benign as many of my longings are I know if they are my focus, if they are my intent, and my desires then i'm terribly amiss on everything.
Knowing this is often more than it's not- easier in practice than its application. I was not so fortunate to grow up middle class let alone upper-middle class - we were poor. My parents had a landscaping company during the summer and a few weeks here and there in the winter. During the busy summer months my little sister and I would be forced to tag along from yard to yard to yard. Unlike my older sister we were too young to be of any assistance, and as such we would swim when there was a pool, or sit under the shade of a tree when there was a tree, and when there was not we would lay prostrate under my fathers 1979 Jeep Wrangler in attempt to escape the hot Texas heat. Sometimes we would earn $5 to weed a garden bed, money I deemed 'savings for summer camp', though i'm most certain I spent each crisp Abraham Lincoln on candy at the corner gas station. But during those idle hours loitering in the shade I would daydream, daydream of having a nice house like the yards of the homes my parents poured sweat mowing, and of the worry free life I imagined went with the periwinkles and edged sidewalks. Now, as that grown-up I envisioned so long ago, the little girl that was me with her high hopes of a comfortable life has to monthly- sometimes weekly-often daily come to terms with kingdom perspective versus entitlement misconception. I remind myself, and my children to their annoyance, we are due nothing. Everything is an extra, even the air we breath, the sometimes smoggy brown LA air.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
16 Hours In A Greyhound
"Include your environment", this was a piece of advise Conrad's kindergarten teacher, Ms. Tina, gave her class before they began their journal entries; it was my volunteer day in the classroom and I was able to be in there as she dispensed writing techniques to my son and his peers that I gladly took mental notes of myself.
Sitting in a Greyhound bus in Coalinga, California including my environment is the very opposite of what i've been trying to do since 6 o'clock this morning when I first stepped onto the bus-still dark outside, but somehow completely full inside. The only open row was in the very back near the very thing I dreaded to be next to: the toilets. It's evening now. I've been traveling this entire day via "the bus". This means of transportation was hardly, nay, never the plan. A missed flight from MFR to LAX on a carrier that only flies in and out twice a week resulted in my present state of 'mind over matter'. Now I wait in the parking lot of a Burger King as my co-passengers trickle back on from their hamburgers and sodas inside.
Coalinga stinks, in the very literal sense. A mad dash across the dusty lot behind the bus to the Valero station for the pencil and papers I am now utilizing prompted, and was the cause, for me to hold my breath the entire brisk walk over there. In here, it kinda stinks. Out there, it really stinks. A few years back while driving from Texas to Oregon, in some small town along the I-5 corridor, quite possibly Coalinga, I asked the gas station attendant where we had stopped to fuel up my RAV4 and restock our Milkdud and Beverage stash out of sheer ignorance,"so what is the culprit for the awful stench?". He replied with sheer honesty, "what stench???".
Since changing buses in Sacramento I must admit it isn't so bad anymore. I no longer have to use my bandanna as a breathing mask against the odor wafting from underneath the doors in the back of the bus (I was able to claim a seat near the front during the transfer)-aka-the lavatory-aka the shit can; the crackhead vigorously rubbing his gums and smacking his lips earlier this afternoon behind me is gone, and the Bob Marley look-a-like discussing the bogusness of his most recent assault charge disappeared into the streets of Marysville to do Lord knows what. They have been replaced with a milder, crack-free, most likely "violent offender" free mexican Grammas and a women with some sort of mental disability still eating her fries oh so slowly. I have the entire row to myself and will till this bus comes to a stop, which is the final stop for me in this desperate attempt to redeem myself as cheaply as possibly and reunite with my family, home. Since realizing how incredibly screwed I was it has been an incessant battle with my inner thoughts not dwelling on how unnecessary this was; how I should be home already; how I should have been more proactive in ensuring better timeliness instead of being overly confident and laid back; how I shoulda, coulda, woulda.
The memories I am taking back with me from my time in Southern Oregon and the Trinity Alps do indeed greatly ease this present state I am in. I was honored to have seen and held the miraculous (no exaggeration there) Frederick Flynn, catch up with some of my favorite Oregonians, make two of them there first cup of coffee for the day, have the world's most flawless mocha at Noble, backpack! the Canyon Creek Trail all the way to the Upper Lake with the Zen Master herself, dive into the lake and at the bottom of a waterfall, sleep under the twinkling lights of heaven, and be humbled and blown away by it all; then once back into town again I had the privilege of attending church at Mountain, pick blackberries on a stroll through Jacksonville, and say farewells to people I adore.
All day long i've been trying to pretend this is all just an adventure; that I am on my way in some far away place-perhaps Peru (it's up there at the top of my list and has been a topic of discussion lately) or Turkey; that I am a world worn traveler, as I am already outfitted in my hiking clothes from the weekend, now with a green and white retro inspired bandanna around my neck and my, as Jon refers to them, "Ferris Bueller" sunglasses perched on top of my head as a headband of sorts; that I am en route to a small village perhaps where I will be observing the villagers to write a piece for the New York Times, or Conde Nast on what i'm not quite sure. I will have most definitely brought organic American candies for the children there and a jar of nutella for me. It's definitely closer to how I envisioned my life would be say tens years ago or so than it's current reality. However, it is the reality I did not expect that excites me to be home. Now, to combine my reality-my role as mother and wife-with a vision of heart led, purpose driven adventure...
Dreamy. Epic.
Two more hours. I've repeated that promise to myself several times already since writing it down moments/an eternity ago. This just might be the longest portion of the trip yet, which speaks volume to my restlessness and anxiousness considering i've had periods today where my sense of smell was violated by the stench of rotting fecal matter stewing in a pot of scented disinfectant just feet from me, or where i found myself situated next to a man who was possibly a rapist and in front of man with enough crack in him to make crack lines all the way to Los Angeles. Never less, i'm ready to be home now more than ever. I've read an entire book from page 1 to page The End, and now i'm writing (written) a future blog on it all.
My thoughts are waiting. And there, to the possible places in my thoughts, I presently tread lightly. There is much on my heart, and much more in my mind. Some are safe for exposure and mulling through but some need time to be my buffer between 'it' and I. Ridiculously coded, and almost certainly will be inaccurately deciphered. Most people think, or assume, that I am some sort of open book, and I, for the most part, encourage that perception if not mislead to it. But the truth is I carefully (and sometimes with mistakes) only reveal portions. I suppose we are all a little bit like this to one degree or another, but I know for me, in terms of relationships, it's what really makes my communion with God so special, so important, and so unique. There is no one else-not a best friend, not my sister, not my husband who truly and deeply knows me, all of me. But He does; He gets me, He understands me, and He is gracious to what all that entails. And that right there, for me at least, is the ultimate love language: To be known, To be Understood. To know, To Understand. It's why when a friend tells me they're going through X and X that I go and pick up some books on X and X; I want to better understand them, to better know them, and hopefully-perhaps ultimately-to better love them by helping them. I long for deep and meaningful relationships where I love that person from a place that understands Who that person is, and naturally, I long for the same.
All of a sudden I realize it is dark. Outside my window the grey of early night collides and mixes with the blackness of void in the distance. A few lights here and another set of lights over there. My reflection looks back at me as I look at it.
*Pause*
Yep, still looking.
I have since pulled the green and white retro bandanna back up over my mouth and nose. Either the sewage in the bus has had it once and for all or this must be the Most Disgusting Smelling Part of the I-5 Corridor Yet (I didn't know such an accolade was possible). I honestly can't tell the difference anymore.
Some people are falling asleep-heads bopping around as if at a good rock show, eyes closed, mouths slightly open like a dog patiently waiting for dinner scraps, shuffle, shuffle. I wish I could fall asleep too but I know it's an impossibility. At the very least I would need a pillow. Oy! These bumbs!
Again, we stop. "A cigarette break", announces the husky voiced women driving this beast of a vehicle. This is just one of many such breaks/stops made today. I swear I would have been home by now if it wasn't for these (and the missed flight of course). I wonder if Greyhound will ever be sued for encouraging and enabling nicotine addiction by some lung cancer patient or a family of one. I can see it happening, and after 14 hours on this bleeping bus, I hope someone does.
I still have some water from the Upper Falls in my canister. It is my little piece of the Trinity Alps and in a few sips it will be gone. Gone. The likelihood is that I won't be back till next September , especially after this haiku.
Planning my trip I wondered if, when arriving back in Oregon, I would want to return on a permanent basis to Oregon, but, apart from a simply idyllic afternoon walk around Jacksonville with Sabrah (aka Zen Master) and her children, the area felt finished for me. Indeed I miss my friends, certain relationships that only close proximity can properly facilitate; I miss the friendships my children crafted with other little ones; I miss summer days spent leisurely and always communally at the spray park on a quilt with everyones picnics a free for all; i miss picking blackberries on bike rides, drive thru coffee stands, sparkling creeks, farm stands, and that sense of belonging to get when you run into someone you know at a yard sale or the grocery store. Community.
After reading a sociology book about community earlier today I no longer feel so bizarre for my infatuation and love lorn desire for it. Still, it took me several years in Oregon to create one, and nostalgia aside, only barely and meagerly. Dallas, if i'm to be quite honest here, was hardly any better though I did have my family (as wide as we were spread) there. Again, upon speculation, perhaps it's why i've always admired and pinned away for a life abroad. In my experience, it seemed to me that in most European towns, communities were just what the name implied. They were these networks of people, closely knit and woven together over generations who shared their lives together. The richness of it-the depth-I crave.
Currently, and depressingly, we live in the suburbs-a "commuter town" as Wikipedia referred to it when I researched Agoura Hills back in January. There is no unifying force here-no "town center", nothing really in fact to bring us all together to form the relationships that create community. And perhaps those "town centers" are why I love cities-that while the probability for closeness in relationships with those with whom one lives in proximity with is still unlikely, considering the components of a "town center": the cafes and coffee shops, the book stores and theaters, the novelty shops and pop up green spaces, all places created to travel on foot whereas one has the opportunity to meet another, does seem more likely than a suburb where people get in their cars in their garages and go to work or to eat or to play hardly ever living amongst those they do in fact live amongst.
Forty More Minuets.
I didn't know I could still write this much, or I didn't know I could ever be so without errand and without someone in need of me or in need to go somewhere that I would and could write so much (again).
Wow, random tandem galore.
"Remember that good stories have a beginning, middle, and end." It's doubtful this diatribe could constitute as a story be it good or bad, but again I recall the advice Ms.Tina gave Conrad's classroom while I sat in as a volunteer that day. My prison sentence on the bus is over-it ended last night at 9:45 when it finally pulled into the downtown LA terminal. Jon was waiting for me out in the parking lot. Truman had fallen asleep somewhere between Cahunega and Melrose, but Conrad pushed through and was bright eyes and smiles when I opened his door for a hug. Jon told me to "hurry up and get in the car before we're hijacked" and once i was in the car that I should "hand sanitize" and that I smelled "like port-a-potty disinfectant". It was true, and I was happy to be hearing it in our car with our kids in the backseat on our way Home. Home Sweet Home.
Sitting in a Greyhound bus in Coalinga, California including my environment is the very opposite of what i've been trying to do since 6 o'clock this morning when I first stepped onto the bus-still dark outside, but somehow completely full inside. The only open row was in the very back near the very thing I dreaded to be next to: the toilets. It's evening now. I've been traveling this entire day via "the bus". This means of transportation was hardly, nay, never the plan. A missed flight from MFR to LAX on a carrier that only flies in and out twice a week resulted in my present state of 'mind over matter'. Now I wait in the parking lot of a Burger King as my co-passengers trickle back on from their hamburgers and sodas inside.
Coalinga stinks, in the very literal sense. A mad dash across the dusty lot behind the bus to the Valero station for the pencil and papers I am now utilizing prompted, and was the cause, for me to hold my breath the entire brisk walk over there. In here, it kinda stinks. Out there, it really stinks. A few years back while driving from Texas to Oregon, in some small town along the I-5 corridor, quite possibly Coalinga, I asked the gas station attendant where we had stopped to fuel up my RAV4 and restock our Milkdud and Beverage stash out of sheer ignorance,"so what is the culprit for the awful stench?". He replied with sheer honesty, "what stench???".
Since changing buses in Sacramento I must admit it isn't so bad anymore. I no longer have to use my bandanna as a breathing mask against the odor wafting from underneath the doors in the back of the bus (I was able to claim a seat near the front during the transfer)-aka-the lavatory-aka the shit can; the crackhead vigorously rubbing his gums and smacking his lips earlier this afternoon behind me is gone, and the Bob Marley look-a-like discussing the bogusness of his most recent assault charge disappeared into the streets of Marysville to do Lord knows what. They have been replaced with a milder, crack-free, most likely "violent offender" free mexican Grammas and a women with some sort of mental disability still eating her fries oh so slowly. I have the entire row to myself and will till this bus comes to a stop, which is the final stop for me in this desperate attempt to redeem myself as cheaply as possibly and reunite with my family, home. Since realizing how incredibly screwed I was it has been an incessant battle with my inner thoughts not dwelling on how unnecessary this was; how I should be home already; how I should have been more proactive in ensuring better timeliness instead of being overly confident and laid back; how I shoulda, coulda, woulda.
The memories I am taking back with me from my time in Southern Oregon and the Trinity Alps do indeed greatly ease this present state I am in. I was honored to have seen and held the miraculous (no exaggeration there) Frederick Flynn, catch up with some of my favorite Oregonians, make two of them there first cup of coffee for the day, have the world's most flawless mocha at Noble, backpack! the Canyon Creek Trail all the way to the Upper Lake with the Zen Master herself, dive into the lake and at the bottom of a waterfall, sleep under the twinkling lights of heaven, and be humbled and blown away by it all; then once back into town again I had the privilege of attending church at Mountain, pick blackberries on a stroll through Jacksonville, and say farewells to people I adore.
All day long i've been trying to pretend this is all just an adventure; that I am on my way in some far away place-perhaps Peru (it's up there at the top of my list and has been a topic of discussion lately) or Turkey; that I am a world worn traveler, as I am already outfitted in my hiking clothes from the weekend, now with a green and white retro inspired bandanna around my neck and my, as Jon refers to them, "Ferris Bueller" sunglasses perched on top of my head as a headband of sorts; that I am en route to a small village perhaps where I will be observing the villagers to write a piece for the New York Times, or Conde Nast on what i'm not quite sure. I will have most definitely brought organic American candies for the children there and a jar of nutella for me. It's definitely closer to how I envisioned my life would be say tens years ago or so than it's current reality. However, it is the reality I did not expect that excites me to be home. Now, to combine my reality-my role as mother and wife-with a vision of heart led, purpose driven adventure...
Dreamy. Epic.
Two more hours. I've repeated that promise to myself several times already since writing it down moments/an eternity ago. This just might be the longest portion of the trip yet, which speaks volume to my restlessness and anxiousness considering i've had periods today where my sense of smell was violated by the stench of rotting fecal matter stewing in a pot of scented disinfectant just feet from me, or where i found myself situated next to a man who was possibly a rapist and in front of man with enough crack in him to make crack lines all the way to Los Angeles. Never less, i'm ready to be home now more than ever. I've read an entire book from page 1 to page The End, and now i'm writing (written) a future blog on it all.
My thoughts are waiting. And there, to the possible places in my thoughts, I presently tread lightly. There is much on my heart, and much more in my mind. Some are safe for exposure and mulling through but some need time to be my buffer between 'it' and I. Ridiculously coded, and almost certainly will be inaccurately deciphered. Most people think, or assume, that I am some sort of open book, and I, for the most part, encourage that perception if not mislead to it. But the truth is I carefully (and sometimes with mistakes) only reveal portions. I suppose we are all a little bit like this to one degree or another, but I know for me, in terms of relationships, it's what really makes my communion with God so special, so important, and so unique. There is no one else-not a best friend, not my sister, not my husband who truly and deeply knows me, all of me. But He does; He gets me, He understands me, and He is gracious to what all that entails. And that right there, for me at least, is the ultimate love language: To be known, To be Understood. To know, To Understand. It's why when a friend tells me they're going through X and X that I go and pick up some books on X and X; I want to better understand them, to better know them, and hopefully-perhaps ultimately-to better love them by helping them. I long for deep and meaningful relationships where I love that person from a place that understands Who that person is, and naturally, I long for the same.
All of a sudden I realize it is dark. Outside my window the grey of early night collides and mixes with the blackness of void in the distance. A few lights here and another set of lights over there. My reflection looks back at me as I look at it.
*Pause*
Yep, still looking.
I have since pulled the green and white retro bandanna back up over my mouth and nose. Either the sewage in the bus has had it once and for all or this must be the Most Disgusting Smelling Part of the I-5 Corridor Yet (I didn't know such an accolade was possible). I honestly can't tell the difference anymore.
Some people are falling asleep-heads bopping around as if at a good rock show, eyes closed, mouths slightly open like a dog patiently waiting for dinner scraps, shuffle, shuffle. I wish I could fall asleep too but I know it's an impossibility. At the very least I would need a pillow. Oy! These bumbs!
Again, we stop. "A cigarette break", announces the husky voiced women driving this beast of a vehicle. This is just one of many such breaks/stops made today. I swear I would have been home by now if it wasn't for these (and the missed flight of course). I wonder if Greyhound will ever be sued for encouraging and enabling nicotine addiction by some lung cancer patient or a family of one. I can see it happening, and after 14 hours on this bleeping bus, I hope someone does.
I still have some water from the Upper Falls in my canister. It is my little piece of the Trinity Alps and in a few sips it will be gone. Gone. The likelihood is that I won't be back till next September , especially after this haiku.
Planning my trip I wondered if, when arriving back in Oregon, I would want to return on a permanent basis to Oregon, but, apart from a simply idyllic afternoon walk around Jacksonville with Sabrah (aka Zen Master) and her children, the area felt finished for me. Indeed I miss my friends, certain relationships that only close proximity can properly facilitate; I miss the friendships my children crafted with other little ones; I miss summer days spent leisurely and always communally at the spray park on a quilt with everyones picnics a free for all; i miss picking blackberries on bike rides, drive thru coffee stands, sparkling creeks, farm stands, and that sense of belonging to get when you run into someone you know at a yard sale or the grocery store. Community.
After reading a sociology book about community earlier today I no longer feel so bizarre for my infatuation and love lorn desire for it. Still, it took me several years in Oregon to create one, and nostalgia aside, only barely and meagerly. Dallas, if i'm to be quite honest here, was hardly any better though I did have my family (as wide as we were spread) there. Again, upon speculation, perhaps it's why i've always admired and pinned away for a life abroad. In my experience, it seemed to me that in most European towns, communities were just what the name implied. They were these networks of people, closely knit and woven together over generations who shared their lives together. The richness of it-the depth-I crave.
Currently, and depressingly, we live in the suburbs-a "commuter town" as Wikipedia referred to it when I researched Agoura Hills back in January. There is no unifying force here-no "town center", nothing really in fact to bring us all together to form the relationships that create community. And perhaps those "town centers" are why I love cities-that while the probability for closeness in relationships with those with whom one lives in proximity with is still unlikely, considering the components of a "town center": the cafes and coffee shops, the book stores and theaters, the novelty shops and pop up green spaces, all places created to travel on foot whereas one has the opportunity to meet another, does seem more likely than a suburb where people get in their cars in their garages and go to work or to eat or to play hardly ever living amongst those they do in fact live amongst.
Forty More Minuets.
I didn't know I could still write this much, or I didn't know I could ever be so without errand and without someone in need of me or in need to go somewhere that I would and could write so much (again).
Wow, random tandem galore.
"Remember that good stories have a beginning, middle, and end." It's doubtful this diatribe could constitute as a story be it good or bad, but again I recall the advice Ms.Tina gave Conrad's classroom while I sat in as a volunteer that day. My prison sentence on the bus is over-it ended last night at 9:45 when it finally pulled into the downtown LA terminal. Jon was waiting for me out in the parking lot. Truman had fallen asleep somewhere between Cahunega and Melrose, but Conrad pushed through and was bright eyes and smiles when I opened his door for a hug. Jon told me to "hurry up and get in the car before we're hijacked" and once i was in the car that I should "hand sanitize" and that I smelled "like port-a-potty disinfectant". It was true, and I was happy to be hearing it in our car with our kids in the backseat on our way Home. Home Sweet Home.
Friday, August 10, 2012
being of good cheer, belated
the air conditioner hums it's artificial tune and further in the distance, a whole hallway down, "clifford the big red dog" can be heard on the television set in the living room. the boys are in screen time heaven today- i am laid up with an injured back, a sad and immobile excuse for a mother. i don't do well when i'm like this. it's hard to 'rise to the occasion' when i can hardly rise at all. i'm certain most moms with a tweaked back would find a way to be more creative in such a situation-i know my own mother would have had me and my sisters painting or organizing buttons in muffin pans, but i'm completely deflated on the proactive front. pbs kids seems good enough to me. the half empty/full bag of frozen corn on my back is a permanent fixture until it thaws and then the heating pad will take it's place.
less than a hour ago my sister left in a town car set for the airport. her company had her out here working an event and she was able to stay afterwards and spend a couple days with us. we got pedicures, of which prompted us relating to this video later on in the evening, we brunched at a very brunchy place, strolled the scene, got unimpressed at LACMA, went to church together, rode the ferris wheel, ate at a legendary hot dog stand, and had dinner on our patio every evening. it was so much fun that my back in recovery couldn't bare it, literally.
i was suppose to restart my training this evening at a local restaurant, now i no longer have the job. it's a very interesting development, and quite honestly, i'm having a hard time making much sense of it other than i'm really not suppose to waitress. which sounds ridiculous, i know. but if you read back on the previous entries, and then you take into account i finally do get a server position but the day before i am to start i wake up unable to get out of bed so the next day i ice/heat my back all day, get a massage, and muster up the mobility to go in-of course i'm not able to lift anything so they tell me to go see a doctor and when i'm better come back, which i do on friday-planning to restart that coming monday; only to wake up monday morning with my back in spasm, again. needless to convey, i no longer have the position.
so what is next, i ask God-i ask myself, and, where do i go from here???
i feel perhaps that i need to stop thinking, debating, making pros and cons lists, and just Do. do something, do anything... not waitressing, clearly, but something else. there are desires and interests out the wazoo, some so Big and some so Epic that the practicality has always presented itself as unachievable for a mother of young children or, as in the past, a twenty something with limited oppurtunities. if God is in it then of course that argument goes flying out the window, but oh the challenge of knowing and then the courage and tenacity to act on such knowledge.
unlike last time when i encountered a similar set of obstacles, i'm accepting this time around with a more positive outlook. we either get stronger or weaker, and i'm thankful at least i'm stronger having gone through the confusion and disappointment before-knowing He works all things together for my good and i don't need to understand it for it to be so.
on such a thought- i'll end this post and think upon this poem:
"We may wait till He explains,
i was suppose to restart my training this evening at a local restaurant, now i no longer have the job. it's a very interesting development, and quite honestly, i'm having a hard time making much sense of it other than i'm really not suppose to waitress. which sounds ridiculous, i know. but if you read back on the previous entries, and then you take into account i finally do get a server position but the day before i am to start i wake up unable to get out of bed so the next day i ice/heat my back all day, get a massage, and muster up the mobility to go in-of course i'm not able to lift anything so they tell me to go see a doctor and when i'm better come back, which i do on friday-planning to restart that coming monday; only to wake up monday morning with my back in spasm, again. needless to convey, i no longer have the position.
so what is next, i ask God-i ask myself, and, where do i go from here???
i feel perhaps that i need to stop thinking, debating, making pros and cons lists, and just Do. do something, do anything... not waitressing, clearly, but something else. there are desires and interests out the wazoo, some so Big and some so Epic that the practicality has always presented itself as unachievable for a mother of young children or, as in the past, a twenty something with limited oppurtunities. if God is in it then of course that argument goes flying out the window, but oh the challenge of knowing and then the courage and tenacity to act on such knowledge.
unlike last time when i encountered a similar set of obstacles, i'm accepting this time around with a more positive outlook. we either get stronger or weaker, and i'm thankful at least i'm stronger having gone through the confusion and disappointment before-knowing He works all things together for my good and i don't need to understand it for it to be so.
on such a thought- i'll end this post and think upon this poem:
"We may wait till He explains,
Because we know that Jesus reigns."
It puzzles me; but, Lord, Thou understandest,
And wilt one day explain this crooked thing.
Meanwhile, I know that it has worked out Thy best--
Its very crookedness taught me to cling.
Thou hast fenced up my ways, made my paths crooked,
To keep my wand'ring eyes fixed on Thee;
To make me what I was not, humble, patient;
To draw my heart from earthly love to Thee.
So I will thank and praise Thee for this puzzle,
And trust where I cannot understand.
Rejoicing Thou dost hold me worth such testing,
I cling the closer to Thy guiding hand."
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
F for Imagination
rummaging through a large box of childhood mementos my mother recently mailed to me i came across multiple graded papers from my school years. most of them deserved the grade or comment they received, but some of them, well, it’s no surprise i’m refusing to send my own child to an “one size fits all” sort of school.
in 1988 i was nine years old. i was too young to be pretentious and too old to care whether or not i was perceived as “cute” anymore. i was sincerely me. i’m thankful i had a few good teachers in the swell of awful ones, and i’m more thankful my parents did what few others did for me as a child: encouraged my individuality and celebrated my uniqueness. next to this elementary poem my sweet mother added a few more comments on a small post-it,
“Your teacher meant to say,
‘Impressive Work!'
or
‘Original and Creative!’
or
(my favorite) ‘Future Author"
may our words be life, a slice of light! thanks mom.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
the saga continues (thank heavens).
for those who didn't grow up with sunday school lessons on flannel boards, read the story them self, or never saw the epic The Ten Commandments film, well, there is this story in the book of Exodus about how God divided the Red Sea so that His chosen people could cross on foot and avoid being captured by Pharaoh and his army-returning them to the slavery and bondage they were recently absolved from. in this story, prior to their being freed, God performed a bunch of strange and spectacular signs and wonders in order to soften Pharaohs heart and demonstrate to Pharaoh that He meant business. the Hebrews too witnessed all this, but when they stood there against the waters edge as Pharaoh and his army drew closer and closer, they doubted. i use to hear this story and marvel at how they could do such a thing considering Everything. i use to imagine if i had been there i would have been hanging out with moses saying things like, "seriously. can you believe these people!!?!?".
today, as the boys and me were driving to the beach, inclining to that point on Kanan Rd where you catch your first glimpse of the Pacific- all glittering and blue, misty and bright- this story was brought to mind. i humorously appended an additional scene to the established narrative: in it some boats came along and the people all cheered and sighed a great sigh of relief thinking this was the plan, this was how God was going to save them and get them to safety when suddenly, right in front of their eyes, all the boats sprang leaks and sunk.
the Hebrew people, while just a smidgen more dramatic than me, have something in common with each other: we both had observed the hand of God on a situation but when things got confusing we both went here:
"Why did you bring us out here to die in the wilderness? Weren’t there enough graves for us in Egypt? What have you done to us? Why did you make us leave Egypt? Didn’t we tell you this would happen while we were still in Egypt? We said, ‘Leave us alone! Let us be slaves to the Egyptians. It’s better to be a slave in Egypt than a corpse in the wilderness!"
i wrote a blog sometime ago, one i have yet to publish, that is about how love is a choice. as i reflected about the story in Exodus and how i was no better than those faithless Hebrews that i realized, just like love, faith too is a choice: (as someone obsessed with patterns and analytics, i can't believe i failed to see the similarities in love and faith.)
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
right there in the car, five more minuets till beach side, the boys in the back intermediately interrupting my train of thought with requests for the goodies in our picnic basket or informing me how the other one was wronging the other, i knew, regardless of my ability to understand or the tattered emotions involved, that the faith needed wasn't going to come naturally this time, but if i was going to access it, then i had to, point blank, chose to.
i can't see it. i can't feel it. but i'm going to believe in it: i know Him, i know His voice, i know He is good to me.
and during the meantime i'm going to take that same advise Moses gave the Hebrew people,
"just stay calm."
today, as the boys and me were driving to the beach, inclining to that point on Kanan Rd where you catch your first glimpse of the Pacific- all glittering and blue, misty and bright- this story was brought to mind. i humorously appended an additional scene to the established narrative: in it some boats came along and the people all cheered and sighed a great sigh of relief thinking this was the plan, this was how God was going to save them and get them to safety when suddenly, right in front of their eyes, all the boats sprang leaks and sunk.
the Hebrew people, while just a smidgen more dramatic than me, have something in common with each other: we both had observed the hand of God on a situation but when things got confusing we both went here:
"Why did you bring us out here to die in the wilderness? Weren’t there enough graves for us in Egypt? What have you done to us? Why did you make us leave Egypt? Didn’t we tell you this would happen while we were still in Egypt? We said, ‘Leave us alone! Let us be slaves to the Egyptians. It’s better to be a slave in Egypt than a corpse in the wilderness!"
i wrote a blog sometime ago, one i have yet to publish, that is about how love is a choice. as i reflected about the story in Exodus and how i was no better than those faithless Hebrews that i realized, just like love, faith too is a choice: (as someone obsessed with patterns and analytics, i can't believe i failed to see the similarities in love and faith.)
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
right there in the car, five more minuets till beach side, the boys in the back intermediately interrupting my train of thought with requests for the goodies in our picnic basket or informing me how the other one was wronging the other, i knew, regardless of my ability to understand or the tattered emotions involved, that the faith needed wasn't going to come naturally this time, but if i was going to access it, then i had to, point blank, chose to.
i can't see it. i can't feel it. but i'm going to believe in it: i know Him, i know His voice, i know He is good to me.
and during the meantime i'm going to take that same advise Moses gave the Hebrew people,
"just stay calm."
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