just "venting"

With a full day of no kids ahead of me, and a sinus infection that persuades me not to go to the gym this morning, I sit down to the computer with a cup of Vanilla Chai with cream (real cream, because I'm not losing weight anyway) and anticipate a full day of writing and, quite possibly, napping. As my tea steeps, I bustle about getting things in place, so as to be undisturbed for the rest of my morning. I pull up pandora.com, "tune" it to my George Winston station, and settle in.

As I boot up the computer, I hear a metal clanking outside my kitchen window that sounds as if it's coming from my driveway. There should not be metal noises coming from my driveway. I stop and listen for a second or two, conclude our neighbor must be home and getting ready to mow his yard, and go ahead and pull up my email. Then I hear it again.

It really sounds like it's closer than his yard, I think. But it has to be the lawn mower. Can't think of what else it could be. I go on reading. I hear it again. Finally curiosity gets the best of me, and I get up to look out the kitchen window. Nothing. I look out the back door. Nothing. I look out the kitchen window again. Nothing. Then, I hear it again. And I realize it's not coming from the kitchen window, it's coming from the kitchen.

I turn toward to noise, coming from above my refrigerator, to find a tiny beaked head sticking out from my kitchen vent into my kitchen. Then a little foot. Then a wing. Then the noise, again, and all appendages disappear. I freeze in shock, then, as its head appears again, realize I need to do something before I have a freaked out sparrow flying around my house, freaking out both myself and the cat.

But what do I do? As much as I like birds, I certainly don't like them that much that I want one flipping out and flapping in my face! I start to dial my husband at work, then realize he probably is not going to come back home at 9 AM to deal with this. I know that Beth, though on her way to the grocery, has just dropped her kids off at school near my house and I may be able to catch her before she's too far north to come back. I breathe a prayer, something like Dear God please let her answer her phone and come help me even though she is going to be even more freaked out than I am, and hit the button for her cell phone. God is merciful, as is Beth. Help is on the way.

But help to do WHAT? I don't know how to open the vent, nor do I want to open the vent. It is becoming apparent I need to call my husband. I speed dial the office and the new receptionist answers. "Good morning, Lorie! How are you today?"

"Um, I'm good, all except for this BIRD in my KITCHEN--is my husband there?"

She transfers me with an "Oh my!" and puts my husband on the line, who is less than enthusiastic about the issue. Of course, he's not the one watching the bird try to escape into the kitchen, where it's going to freak out and flap all over and, let's be honest, likely POOP all over everything. He says he can come home at lunch. That's not working for me. He instructs me to pull apart a cereal box and tape it up around the vent until he can come home. That, I can do.

Beth arrives, questioning what, exactly, the cat that sits at the front door to greet her is good for, if he can't deal with the bird in the vent. She reminds me she's terrified of animals. I remind her I'm aware of that, and assign her the task of handing me the tape.

I climb up on the chair, just seconds after the last escape attempt, and the bird goes still out of survival instinct. Yes, that's right, I soothe, you just be real still and I'll pretend I don't see you, okay? I manage, despite my height deficit, to finally get the box secured around the vent, and Beth goes on her merry grocery-shopping way.

All is eerily quiet now, with an occasional flutter or clank from above the fridge. (Why is "fridge" spelled with a "d" and "refrigerator" is not?) It is 9:45, and it will be a few hours before my husband comes to free the little critter, hopefully without my help, but most likely with. I regard the poor creature--stuck in a deep, dark place, unable to get help, light and open space on the other side, just out of reach. I know how this little bird feels. I want out, too.

But freedom is coming. Help is on the way.

As long as my attempt to keep it from escaping doesn't suffocate it in the meantime.

Sure is quiet up there now...

more blue skies

Wrote this over the summer on a long, sunny drive. Thought it was fitting for today.

Green upon green upon blue upon green,

Spreading wide and long and high and deep.

What touches the earth, reaches the sky,

Bringing heaven within reach.

Spreading wide and long and high and deep—

Fruited branches ride the breeze,

Bringing heaven within reach,

Rooting peace in the soil of my soul.

Fruited branches ride the breeze—

What touches the earth, touches the sky,

Rooting peace in the soil of my soul…

Green upon green upon blue upon green.

overnight

Yesterday, the streets were lined with skeletons—tall and bare and brown. Today, the same bodies are enfleshed with green leaf-lings, bones no longer visible. In an act of divine mystery sometime between the dark and the light, life burst forth into my neighborhood, catapulting us from winter into spring in one lone 24 hour period.

I lay on my bed, waiting for teeth to be brushed, and gaze out the open window, taking in the sights and sounds and smells and sensations of spring. Birds titter and call, fledgling leaves rustle in the gentle breeze. The setting sun casts a golden glow across the expanse, while the scent of crabapple blossoms drifts upward on the same sweet wind. A lover of green, I soak it all in.

Yesterday, the grand trees that dominate the landscape outside my window were still bare. Today, they are suddenly clothed. Just like that. Were that all transitions so sudden. Or perhaps at least a few. Perhaps.

The shower runs in the background, my six-year-old's soprano voice cutting through the buzz of the spray. No, it is a good thing not all transitions happen that quickly. Though should you ask me in another twelve years, I'm sure I'll tell you it happened overnight.

The light is fading, the twilight songs moving toward their finales. The breeze settles, and all is calm outside the bedroom window. The rich blue of the sky deepens, and, tonight, for the first time since last summer, there is green against its royal background. Bodies grow restless beyond the bedroom door, and the rites and passages of bedtime await less than patiently. I cast one last glance across the roof tops and tree tops, marveling at the difference one day makes. I leave my pen and paper, my twilight serenade, my moment of quiet reverie, and I go take advantage of this night, before it, too, has passed and become something new.

a smattering of haiku

I came across several finished but not shared poems as I sorted through my scraps of inspiration this weekend. Thought I'd share a few:

i cannot control
that which should be con-
trollable to me

*****
banging head on wall
blood covering my forehead
the wall does not move

*****
red-stained rag in hand
you speak to me mystery—
“my grace is enough”

*****
two glasses iced tea
and an iced café mocha
make one sleepless night

*****
touch my fingertips
to the sun-speckled surface…
oh, to go deeper

*****
waves lap my heart’s shore
awakening the senses,
bringing refreshing

*****
tired, longing for
divine initiation—
come and move in me

*****
anger and mercy
do not mix where i come from—
i cannot trust you

*****
brush-strokes uneven,
painted into a corner—
no where else to go

*****
low-lying black clouds
limit visibility
obscuring my view

*****
listen as silence
whispers to my heart—all else
clamors to be heard

doubtful anticipation (a mis-lined pantoum)

Cool breeze blows white cotton across blue expanse—
shushing through the tall hickory trees,
causing the sun to dance in the shadows
as I listen to the twittering of birds and the chirruping of crickets.

Will you truly meet me here?
Shushing through the tall hickory trees,
sweeping down to touch me
as I listen to the whirring of cicadas and the roar of the lawn mower?

Here, in the midst of your green glory—
will you truly meet me here?
Here and now, when I so desperately need you
sweeping down to touch me?

What is expectation without hope?
Here, in the midst of your green glory
I question why I have one but not the other,
here and now, when I so desperately need you.

My heart knows the truth: only you can save me.
Cool breeze blows white cotton across blue expanse—
I pray that you will show up,
causing the sun to dance in the shadows.

a pellet gun would suffice...

So, my hubby and I were sitting out on the deck late one night this weekend, enjoying the cool, relaxed September evening and celebrating it with a fire in the chimnea, when a dark figure made an arc around our yard. Is that a cat? my hubsband asked. I squinted as it made its way through the shadows to my right. I'm not sure, I replied. Momentarily it disappeared from sight, reappearing seconds later at the foot of the steps just below me. Its masked features peered up at me in the firelight, and my husband and I groaned in unison.

Raccoon number five.

Anyone have a firearm we could borrow?

in the air...

A cool breeze blows across me, filling my home with the promise of change and the sound of crickets. A fire burns in a backyard somewhere, its scent stirring within me a longing for clear, starry skies and burnt, gooey marshmallows. In a few weeks, the longing will be fulfilled, but for tonight that itch remains unscratched. I lean back, closing my eyes, and breathe in deep, greedy breaths—I want to suck in all that gives me life. Tonight, life smells like fresh-cut grass and glowing embers…

Max sits at the screen door, his twitching ears trying to take it all in as well. His tail sweeps the same space over and over as he dreams of catching the Japanese beetles I repeatedly end up finding dead in the bottom of my mailbox after a long night of courting the porch light. Occasionally a dull thwack comes from his post, causing him to scurry under the couch having apparently scared himself with his own boldness. Eventually his aging body will end up draping over my own, and as his motor-boat engine rumbles in my lap all will be right with the world, if but for a cool, pre-September moment.

There will be many more to come—these perfect nearly-fall moments that take my breath away with the largeness of life and the magnificence of God. Some people mourn the passing of summer—I am not one of them. I live for clear, brilliant blue September skies framing crisp, golden maple leaves, for chilly mornings and snuggle-weather nights that require a sweatshirt, a companion, and a fire, for afternoons of leaf-raking and pile-jumping and pumpkin-picking and jack-o-lantern making. They are just around the corner—I can smell them in the air.

There are memories of summer to share, but soon my attention will turn to wringing every bit of life out of my favorite time of year. If tonight’s breeze is any indication, it will be delicious…

...and still counting...

make that four raccoons.

sure am glad we did not go with the service that charges by the animal!

running tally

three raccoons

one oppossum

the neighbor's cat

(just kidding! we didn't catch the cat!)

(yet...)

great, now i've got guilt

It falls under the category of it seemed like a good idea at the time... Flea infested raccoons move in under our deck, infesting our yard with fleas which we then track into the house which promptly results in our house and indoor cat getting infested (do you know how hard it is to get rid of fleas?!)...but I digress. Three raccoons, so brazen as to come out during the light of day, fighting on the deck at night, living under the space where my children play and my neighbor's cat sleeps. (A lot.) Every day she asks me--my neighbor, that is--what I'm going to do about the raccoons. I have no flippin' idea didn't seem like the response she was looking for at the time...

Not that I blame her. She has an outdoor cat and two dogs, one of which, apparently, the raccoons could eat, and they are, after all, on "her side" of the house. She has every right to be vocally concerned. I'd want them gone, too. And I do, really I do.

So, in the interest of neighbor relations and flea prevention and a rabies alert, I placed a call to Varmant Gaurd, who not-so-promptly set traps filled with peanut butter and apples around our deck. (PB and apples? Who knew?) Last night at one AM, in the midst of being unable to fall asleep, I hear rustling outside our window. Metal rattles, and then, in the dark of the night, the fatal "clink." Raccoon one, trapped. Fifteen minutes later, "clink." Raccoon two. I put the fan back in the window to muffle the rattling of their cages (as I already was having trouble sleeping), and drifted off to a fitful sleep, knowing my neighbor would be delighted. I was pretty relieved myself.

Until this morning.

Did you know that raccoons have German-shepherd-brown eyes? And that they shake and chirp when they're scared? Granted, they growl and spit like a, well, like a caged animal, when you get too close to their trap, but still...

I feel horrible. Fleas and rabies and neighbors and neighbor's cats aside, they're kinda cute. And they're scared. And they're gonna die.

And it's my fault.

Tonight the Varmant Gaurd Man brings "stinky fish" and takes the first (innocent?) victims away.

If I can't sleep, I'll tell you it's the smell of the fish below my bedroom window. But you'll know better. The guilt will be killing me...

just beyond dusk

The sky is green on the west horizon, tall maples and pines stark black against its hue like intricate scherenschnitte cut with large, divine hands using small, impossibly sharp scissors. It stretches from the treetops of High Street to the rooftops of Indianola Avenue, turning to deep blue as it spans across our home on its way to the other side of the neighborhood. The moon carves its bright crescent curve out of the darkness, followed by star, after star, after star…

All is quiet now—chirping children and babbling birds alike—save for the low roar of the interstate and the occasional rumble of northbound trains in the not-so-distant distance. This is when my ears begin to perk up, searching the silence for the herald of summer, beseeching him to make his sweet, gentle music and set my spirit at ease. He does not disappoint me, this harbinger of both good fortune and great joy, as he slowly tunes his instrument, picks up his bow, and begins to play. He is rewarded with a contented sigh.

Deep, blue darkness has pulled its thick blanket across from east to west and the paper-cut images of trees have disappeared into the darkness. We are tucked in for the night—the lullaby of summer playing softly outside the window, which is finally unbolted and opened wide. I will sleep, tonight, in the tender caress of the almost-summer breeze, and dream sweet dreams of lightening bugs twinkling over vast wheat fields filled with a symphony of crickets.

eagle watch, 2006

IMG_7627, originally uploaded by as we see it.

after seeing the bald eagle in westerville with my daughter, we've been on a mission. no eagles today, but watched an osprey catch and eat a fish!

let ME see, momma!

IMG_7629, originally uploaded by as we see it.

he's getting a good view of the railing...

springing forth

The sun blesses me with a cameo appearance today, breaking up the cold monotony of March if but for one cheerful moment.  Unseen birds beckon me to give the outside world a glance and my startled gaze falls upon the huge Oak three houses down.  Buds.  It has buds on it.  I am now completely distracted from my conversation as I strain to see to the west, to the east, to the north.  Three windows.  Three views.  Three confirmations.  Buds.  On all the trees.  Joining the tulips and crocuses, the forsythia and the daffodils, the hyacinths and the newly-green-again grass.  How did I miss it?

Death is losing its grip on Central Ohio.  Life is springing forth unimpeded in all of its wet, sloppy glory.  Today, there is mud on the floor and well-worn winter coats near the back door to ward off the last of the chill, but tomorrow the trees will be clothed with leaves and I will be putting away my sweaters and wondering what I did with my flip-flops and capri pants.  

Buds.  It will not be long now…

the perfect start to a new year

P1015735, originally uploaded by as we see it.

Hiking at Hocking Hills... say that ten times fast!

Happy New Year!

Room with a view

PA295480, originally uploaded by as we see it.

From the Mohican Fire Tower, 10.05

Falling

PA305517, originally uploaded by as we see it.

Mohican, 10.05

Ripples

PA305512, originally uploaded by as we see it.

Mohican, Halloween Weekend

blue

It was not coincidental. Of that, I am certain.

“Did you remember to reset the white-balance on that? I think I changed it when we carved the pumpkins. These all look a little blue, Babe.” He pointed this out after I’d taken nearly 90 pictures—my attempts to hoard a day’s worth of gold to spend throughout the gray days of winter all done in vain. The shocking brilliance of the sun glinting against the yellow maples reproduced on my tiny digital screen in lime green—a little blue, indeed.

Looking back, blue shadows were beginning to be cast even before the pumpkins were carved and the camera futzed with. A hint of melancholy that I passed off as premenstrual hormones lingered longer than pre and held on into post. Technical issues aside, it was no coincidence I had captured that entire day in shades of blue. The representation was uncanny in its accidental accuracy.

Life is like this, sometimes. Details remain unchanged—the leaves, the trees, the river, the children—but a blue hue discolors everything, turning the golden brightness of life to chartreuse while the operator is unaware. Melancholy does this to me—messes with my white-balance, casting colorful shadows that distort yet don’t.

Photoshop may save my stash of gold. The beauty of digital is that sometimes color can be easily corrected. The problem with life is that sometimes it can’t. I turn to that which re-calibrates me, and I hold out for splotches of yellow, storing them up for the season when blue will turn to gray.

All will be color-corrected in time.

living beyond myself

“This is the true joy of life: being used up for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one. Being a force of nature rather than a feverish and selfish little clot of grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.”
George Bernard Shaw

A fresh wind is blowing through my home. Maybe it is the breeze, finally allowed in through windows opened wide after weeks of stifling heat and humidity, causing the curtains to dance with their new-found freedom. Maybe it is the smell of green and the symphony of crickets drifting through that cause my heart to stir from its slumber—to yawn wide-mouthed with an expansive stretch and consider, for the first time since I don’t know when, getting up and getting dressed. I am awakened by the current. Stirred. Refreshed, even. Maybe it is a cool front moving through.

Maybe it is something more.

There is a peace that both stirs and settles—a passionate peace as Eugene Peterson refers to in The Message. It is new to me. Is this what contentment feels like? I must confess I have not been very intimate with contentment. Not yet. But I have introduced myself, and I hope he may stay with me sometime soon. “Nothing will steal your contentment like self-absorption.[1]” Perhaps that is why he and I are not better acquainted.

“Debilitating self-interest” I have unfortunately known much more intimately. At his bidding, I have thrown myself on the floor of life kicking and screaming to get my own way. I have believed that it was, indeed, all about me. I have disengaged from life when life would not devote itself to making me happy. I have bought full-price the lie that my faith entitles me to a get-out-of-suffering-free card. I have complained and whined and pouted and moped and, quite frankly, put my two-year-old to shame.

Yet somehow, things are shifting. In a world of MORE, I am finally moving toward less. Spending less. Eating less. Wanting less. Complaining less. More of you and less of me we sing sometimes in our worship. It is happening in my life.

Stirred, yet settled. I know enough to know this is not of my doing. Just as certainly as I cannot make the breeze blow through my window, I am incapable of such change on my own. God works within me with an all-surpassing power to will and to act according to his good purpose. (2 Cor 4:7, Phil 2:13) There is a greater power at work here. And for once, it is okay to want more.

A fresh wind is blowing through my home. The Holy Spirit has blown the windows open wide, coursing full-blown through my life—giving purpose where I am purposeless and giving power where I am powerless. Changing my heart. Using me up. Enabling me to live beyond myself.

A new front is, indeed, coming through.

[1] Beth Moore, Living Beyond Yourself, Introductory Audio Session, 2004