Pray the Lord my soul to take

This happened just last Wednesday. Before, or after, or during, or even if you don't read on, please send up some prayers for hurting families and the community of Blue Hill.

While I was admittedly thinking of myself and my own, need I say, selfish shit, I ran into this video.



It reminds me of a dream I once had. Then, hey! I remembered I wrote it down! It took me all of five minutes to dig up the following in my lengthy journal archives. It's really awesome to find something without googling it.

November 15, 2009 11:24 a.m.
There was a scene with a sunset. A friend came running around the corner. We both watched a bird of pelican-like stature take off to fly over the pond before it plopped back into the water. While this was happening, a voice was narrating the process of flying in the dream. Something like, "You will keep falling, but you just have to keep spreading your wings." Then I remember walking through a neighborhood. Across the street was a beautiful home. I walked into a room inside - I was suddenly (literally and figuratively) in someone else's shoes. A young child. I found a bookshelf, dark mahogany, with a set of colorful books. I opened the first book, and it came alive. The room transformed into a blue-green fantasy city with floating lights and particles circling overhead. I came back to the room and realized that this world made me so happy. No one judged. I picked up a second book, and this time I walked into a meadow where two very good-looking men, best friends, were walking around an outdoor hammock. This time, I was myself - no shoes to fill. I awkwardly tried to climb into the hammock, but failed. They looked at me funny. I came back to the world. I opened the next book. It became narrated by an animated brown bear with a big smile. On the first page, it talked about singing, praising, Psalms and Song of Solomon. I realized this new world I was in was truly magical - or maybe of God - or maybe my young self thought it was heaven. I woke up smiling, not wanting to wake up. God is shining in my soul, and I hope that means he is in my dreams. Such hope and light in these dreams. And the beauty of things to come.

Lord knows it's awesome (no better word) that these things come back around to remind of things to come that have been. Christ alive in us! God even overrides social media. No Google monster machine of a computer necessary for God to search - and find - your heart. And take it with Him in the end. God makes the blue-green, the particles, the twinkles, the wings, perseverance in grief, His son.

E'en so Lord Jesus, quickly come 
and night shall be no more. 
They need no light nor lamp nor sun 
for Christ will be their all.

See you up there Travis, Caroline, Dustin, Marla.

 

Awesome old heart

I haven't written anything but schedules, letters, and a few journal entries here and there for over two months. And here I am, trying to figure out something awesome to say and it's not coming. But, then I think, "Lindsey, it doesn't have to be awesome. Not everyone has to write something awesome all the time. This blog is not necessarily conducive to awesomeness."

I want to talk about something really awesome, though. I've found home. I mean, besides my home home. Let me explain. For the past couple of years, I've been bouncing from Seward, Nebraska to Chicago to Rockford to Blue Hill to Ashland to Lincoln, back to Seward, back to Blue Hill, to Hastings. In all of these places, I've found people and places that are...home. You want to know how I know (feel) this? It's the fact that I'm no longer mortified to be myself in all these places with so many different people that I have come (and have learned) to love. Working with kiddos of all ages all summer will do that to you. Of course, my "self" is constantly shaping itself, and it's bound to turn in on itself and hate itself and rearrange itself once again. But it's always going to be there, at home within myself. So much self. That's selfish, I know.

I had moments this summer in which I realized that all the places I've been have been the right places at the right time. Maybe I didn't do the "right" thing, but those places were set before me for some reason. Of course, finding a home doesn't always happen at 24. It might happen at 32, or 65, or 98. Or, I may just be a total nutcase about all of this. It's okay if I am. But, maybe you know what I'm talking about: when you learn to appreciate everything you've been through, even when it's been really shitty. Because, as the cliche goes, those things make you who you are today.

Due to a recent introduction to the Oh Hello's (thanks to that you-know-who-you-are person), who I wish I had said hello to sooner, I have had a little help in finding what they might call my old heart. I spent a lot of time in Western Nebraska this summer, at a little oasis in the sandhills called Sullivan Hills.

I thought it would be the worst thing to happen to me, but it's turned out to be one of the best. Okay, Lord, you're pretty sly. I won't give too many details. That would take days. But here's what I will do: I'm going to tell you a story via lines from my journal. Don't worry, it might be funny. It might even be awesome.

Right away, I had an excitement for the grounds and what happens here, but then a slight pang of lonesome because I keep remembering that I won't be at Carol Joy Holling with most of the staff for most of the summer. I relate the courage to the Lions song we learned Tuesday (slinky!). Stories from camp that don't seem funny to others elsewhere. Sad, but true. But who cares! They're great! Almost tipping the canoe with Collin and Patrick. I almost wish we had actually tipped. Horse stampede. Laughing real hard about farting. Good, good meaty stuff in their, hearts, too. The community and camaraderie, kindness of this staff is so much better than any dreaminess. Let's just say: more booze, less sushi, and a $200 tab. It's nights like these that I'm so glad I still remember, that make so many things worth it, that bring a warmth to a story, not a dream. And I get to laugh a lot. "You shouldn't bottle that up," says Joe. But thank you, God, for sending him here to keep me sane.

I want to be like Deb when I grow up, with a big heart, in the hills, working hard, a pioneer woman, at the ready for others all the time. First rattlesnake sighting. It sucks being the boss mom at camp. Sometimes, it's the best thing that's happened, though. That one time someone backed the tractor into the shop and clipped the door just as he said, "like a boss." I smell like campfire and cast iron, but I like it.

Later, we got some crappy sno-cones, stopped at the Gallery, talked about our love lives and the pizza place we want to start together someday. Boys were stupid, got to be stupid. Wouldn't want it any other way, most days. Praying for rest, health, excitement and efficiency in planning and organizing, peace in knowing that this union is founded in Christ our Savior. We wobbled. We chicken-danced. We duggied. We Macarena-ed. We cupid shuffled. We copperheaded. We slid electrically. Sloppy Joe style.

It involved strange corridors in hospitals and churches, a car accident, and city-slick parties. Just plain after him to no avail. Thank the Lord I always wake up to more realistic adventures. The farting noises woke me up. Maybe I really should just go for it, via the advice and support of my big brother. But, alas, we hit the road. Boys in the booger. Girls in the mother ship.

Saw him from afar, apron on, more that five cuppies of water in his hands. He lit up, if a man in such garb and so occupied could be capable of lighting up. Sunshine, people. Amazingly tired, but surprisingly chipper. The Keno Kove. I can't say enough how much I'll miss those bunkhouses. But, if there's anything I've learned this summer, it's how to move on, how to forgive, how to let things go, how to move forward. "Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. All of us then who are mature should take a view of such things. And if on some point you think differently, that too God will make clear to you. Only let us live up to what we have already attained." - Philippians 3:12-16 We'll have that moment forever, it's true. I'm thankful for one that's the bee's knees, the tops, where everything stops. 

"I want to find a home and I want to share it with you."

Adorkable Nostalgia

I must confess: I've been listening to One Direction and Justin Bieber regularly - "regularly" meaning once a month. When I do have a little free time, as I do now, I resort to recalling the excitement of my youth, when I wasn't at all concerned with my taste in music or my wardrobe that included a Mighty Mouse sweatshirt, a Mickey Mouse obsession (I was jealous of Minnie, yes), multiple Peanuts t-shirts, and at least two pairs of pink and purple pants. And, remember those old Rider Sandals? The worst designed thing I ever owned. But, I wish I still had them. I regret to say, at (almost) age 24, that One Direction is so much more adorkable than the Backstreet Boys ever were. And, Justin Bieber will always be more talented than Aaron Carter or Jesse McCartney, even though JB looks more and more like a girl everyday. Sorry, man. The fact that I know this, and the fact that I own Never Say Never is embarrassing indeed.

It's an illusive thing, this recollection of that kind of youthful, because I'm not a 12-year-old anymore. I have to remind myself of that all the time. I mean, I have to remind myself how much I've learned since then, how much I've actually had to grow up, not how much of a dork I still want to be. Right? I want to clarify the difference between having a youthful heart and being youthful. Those are two very different things. I'm talking about being youthful. I hope to always have a youthful heart.

I think the biggest catalyst for this nostalgia is my little brother's recent high school graduation as well as a recent conversation with a good friend about how I never did anything remotely "rebellious" in high school. As we speak, my brother is carefree at the lake with his best high school buds fishing and doing other lakey shenanigans. His deep connection to our hometown is the same network of quality people and places that I was so ready to get away from at his age. I was ready to be adult-ish and gain better taste in music and wardrobe. I never did quite get that far on the latter, by the way. But, whose definition of mature wardrobe are we talking about? I suppose its my own new definition, since I moved to the city, where everything's sleeker.

I do want to grow up. I am actively doing so now. But I want it to be okay to still listen to today's (and yesteryear's) teen pop. I want it to be okay that I know what's happening in the world of politics, journalism, the arts, but also that I know each hunky teens' name in One Direction. I want it to be okay that I'm concerned with how popular music is destroying really good music that should be heard, but also that I appreciate the Biebster's sense of humor and the simplicity of his stupid lyrics for hoards of young girls, who just want to be treated right. I want it to be okay that I try to dress like I'm 24, but also that I really, really miss my Mighty Mouse sweatshirt because I gave it to Goodwill a really long time ago.

It's okay. I know. Dance parties will always be okay. My taste will never be super-sophisticated, nor will my wardrobe. My youthful heart, however, I hope becomes a certain kind of sophisticated - not sleek, but mature and hearty (ha, forgive me). One love, one heart, fo' sho'.

Myself and the land.

An affinity for a rural-ness of life. Ohhh, so this explains my repeated readings of Jane Eyre - my admiration for the Bronte sisters; Enjoying Willa Cather's My Antonia, which seems, to some, a greater obscurity of life on the plains (in other words: *yawn* - but not to me). It explains what I call my Pottery Barn aesthetic (even though the Pottery Barn is a little barn-y, pottery-y and stereotype country-y for me) - an interest in earth tones, organic structures, country-designed kitchens, woodwork, pottery, hand-painted materials, hand-crafted textiles, ceramic chickens (as well as rubber chickens, maybe).

Somewhere between leaving the open earth and sky environment and the beginning of a respect for the concrete and metal city that scrapes both of these things, I started to think more geometrically. This explains a new found interest in architecture, marketing, symmetry and city street layout.

This is cool, though, because it might be important for me to think both ways. As I write, I'm lying peaceful on my double bed at home in Nebraska. It is so...quiet. I can hear myself think, which is not altogether a good thing, because I already over think and here, I can overhear myself over think.

Chicago, though - fun fact of the day that I'm proud to know and share - is laid out like a grid, and diagonal streets jut into the grid like a bicycle wheel's spokes, its center downtown. I've also learned that every 8 blocks equals about 1 mile. Just about every set of 8 blocks has an arterial street at the end of it. Every 4 blocks is a major secondary street. A block is about 480 feet. Downtown, most blocks are closer to 400 feet. Even-numbered addresses are on the west and north sides of each street, while odd-numbered addresses are on the east and south sides of each street. Yep, doin' my research.

And here's today's silly metaphor: my country roots (aka Jane Eyre tendencies and Pottery barn dreams) = the grid layout. My city living (architectural thinking) = the diagonals through the grid. This metaphor still up for interpretation, contemplation, expansion, because, it is a little yesteryear lame - you know, the structure of upbringing SLICED by 20-something self-discovery in the form of grid-breaking interruptions.

I think it's okay to one: not really have a really great conclusion to this piece of writing because it stands for the shaping and reshaping and shaping and reshaping of organic and geometric thinking; and two: finish up with a few words about freedom and making mistakes (by possibly writing this post and/or ending it with ambiguous song lyrics by a sentimental musician). Good 'ol Sufjan.

I was in love with the place
in my mind, in my mind
I made a lot of mistakes
in my mind, in my mind...

...if I was crying
in the van, with my friend
it was for freedom
from myself and from the land

Spring Reading

 

"My heart's broken," he thought. "If I feel this 

way, my heart must be broken."

- Men Without Women by Ernest Hemingway page 116

(My heart's not actually broken, even if I feel 

this way. Still beating and still pumping.)

 

In the morning, Mr. Rose chose to rest his magic hands 

between trees; he came up to Homer who was 

working as a checker in the orchard called 

Frying Pan, counting the one-bushel crates before 

they were loaded on the flatbed trailer and 

giving every picker credit for each bushel picked. 

- The Cider House Rules by John Irving page 326

(I want to give credit where credit is due, 

for every bushel picked.)

Genius is said to be self-conscious; I cannot tell

whether Miss Ingram was a genius, but she was

self-conscious -- remarkably self-conscious indeed.

- Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte page 198

(Flamingos remind me of graceful geniuses.)

 

I was smack in the middle of this interesting war.

There were social overtones too that I'll explain.

- On the Road by Jack Kerouac

(There's always more to anyone's battle.)

 

My dear child, What I would like best would be to

send you my secret thoughts with a white dove. But

they are all out of white doves in Lebanon.

- Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder

(I miss being a kid and having secret thoughts.)

Going south we watched spring unroll like a

proper novel...when we drove back, we read

from back to front

- Fiction by Lisel Mueller

(I miss this.)

 

            

 Don't be square and don't be a stranger.

Awe-SUN Kerouac's birthday

Happy belated birthday, Jack Kerouac.



It's not often that I get real excited for a new film with a cast of very well-known actors (Garrett Hedlund, Sam Riley, Viggo Mortensen, Amy Adams, Kirsten Dunst, Kristen Stewart, Tom Sturridge, Steve Buscemi, Terrence Howard, Alice Braga, Elesabeth Moss), but when they're all respectable in their own right, I get excited. And Garrett Hedlund might just be the cat's meow. And I don't even like cats.

"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn..." - Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Part 1, Ch. 1

Though Kerouac's writing in On the Road is deadly visceral - with the heated uncertainty of transitioning adulthood - the above passage reminded me of another I've read: "They asked each other, 'Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?"' - Luke 24:32  
Mad to be saved.

.....

 Robert Frank and Jack Kerouac.

photo by John Cohen - Hulton Archive/Getty Images

Also, while we're talking about the Beat Generation. I've been reading up on Robert Frank and The Americans. It's worth a looksie.

Happy Tuesday to you.
And cheers to the awesome (or should I say awe-SUN) spring weather.

Yours truly,
Lindsey

Halls of mutterwhisperer doom

I've got a cold. I stole some of my roommate's vitamin C Halls cough drops - the ones now with tiny words of "encouragement." Just before my body broke into a heaving coughing episode, I popped the cool orange drop into my mouth and flattened out its wrapper. Did I feel encouraged? No. I felt a silly baffoon. Mocked. Maybe it's the placement of the words on the wrapper, or the way they are worded. Of course, I know I'm making myself the victim here. This little detail doesn't matter within a larger picture. I got to thinking about words, though (which I think about all the time). I've become skeptical of them as of late. It has a lot to do with my personal challenge of steering away from my own sentimental, flowery writing. And my ridiculous poetry that's so hopeful, its own hope becomes a little deafening - or too encouraging, in turn, meaningless - like the Halls wrappers. I don't want to become a Halls wrapper advocate and/or a sad mutterwhisperer writer of words.

"They fill me with sad mental vignettes featuring the saddest sickest sadsters smiling weakly at the wrappers crinkling in their flu-addled hands."

http://weveseenbetter.wordpress.com/2011/06/11/a-pep-talk-in-every-drop/